


What If

by CaffeineGinger



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: 90s comics are my jam, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Does Not Know How To Tag, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Good Friend Bruce Wayne, Grief/Mourning, Hal Jordan Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Justice League (DCU) as Family, Mild Language, Not Beta Read, death is a thing, do not copy to another site, is there a tag for over-use of italics?, no tagged character dies but, tentative chapter count
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22137433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeineGinger/pseuds/CaffeineGinger
Summary: “It’s Batman. Listen, sensors just picked up a lantern approaching. I need you to divert Hal to the watchtower.”“What the fuck B, you’re not even in the league these days, you don’t get to tell me what to do,” the stroppy Lantern argues. “For that matter, neither is Hal!”“Gardner,” Bruce snaps, “He doesn’t know.”That seems to give him pause.“Fuck,” finally crackles over the line. Then, with more feeling,“Fuck.Wait, how do you know?”“Stewart’s last reply from Oa - Hal had already left on sector patrol when the news reached there. We have to tell him about Coast City ... before he finds out the hard way.”“Seriously, are you shitting me? You wantmeto tell Jordan his home is gone!?”It’s a good thing they’re talking voice-only, because Brucedefinitelyfails to hide his wince at that.“Just - keep him in space for a bit. I’ll handle it. Batman out.”
Relationships: Hal Jordan & Bruce Wayne, Hal Jordan/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 44
Kudos: 222





	1. Homeward Bound

**Author's Note:**

> A follow-up to the Reign of the Supermen arc where Coast City is destroyed, only in this AU, Hal doesn't come back to Earth or fight Mongul during that. We're basically throwing out Emerald Twilight to replace the murder-y death & destruction that made it 'edgy' with more realistic grief/healing.
> 
> It's a "What if Hal came home to find out about Coast City's destruction after the fact?" and a "What if Bruce, being his general awkward but well-intentioned self, stuck his nose in?" and a "What if, Hal got a little support from his friends - take that and _shove_ it, Parallax" kind of fic  
> :)  
> (Notes updated for coherency 01.30.20)

The sun rises like molasses over the gritty, shadowed streets of Gotham. Her long rays touch the skyline, but cannot reach the Batman where he sits in his subterranean office.

Satisfied that his charge once again made it home - more or less in one piece - Alfred has already headed up for the night. Bruce Wayne, also known as the Batman, puts a few last minutes into his night job before morning. As he works, Bruce idly fantasizes about a life where all the nights were as easy as this one.

He drums his fingers on the desk in front of his keyboard. As soon as he finishes updating the parameters of this passive search algorithm - the title bar reads ‘Domestic Violence, Localization & Prevention’ - he’ll head up and grab a few hours of sleep in his hedonistically giant bed. Unfortunately, there’s an afternoon board meeting he really shouldn’t miss. 

As he mounts the last stair to the family wing of the Manor, his phone trills a distinctive pattern. It’s the priority alert; not just the cave mainframe alerting him to an updated case file, or the trip of one of his early warning algorithms, but something that requires Batman’s immediate attention. He reverses course without a thought - at this rate, he’s not going to make it into the office again until next Wednesday. 

(He probably should feel more guilty about that than he does.)

He crosses to the main console, querying the source of the alert by voice before even reaching the keyboard. The voice that responds belongs to the Watchtower’s computerized assistant.

“Green Lantern power signature detected approaching Earth. Current locus: asteroid belt, galactic North,” she announces. 

Batman, of course, doesn’t freeze - he has long since trained himself out of any and all startle responses. Nor does Batman hurry - but, since he’s not in the cowl, Bruce allows his steps to fall faster. He retrieves his league communicator from among his gear. It’s the latest model, even though he’s not exactly an active member in good standing these days.

He calls up to the Watchtower, and feels a pang of annoyance at the voice that answers.

“Who is this, and how the blazes did you make it where I can’t see who’s calling?” Guy Gardner blusters. 

“It’s Batman. Listen, sensors just picked up a lantern approaching. I need you to divert Hal to the watchtower.” 

“What the fuck B, you’re not even in the league these days, you don’t get to tell me what to do,” the stroppy Lantern argues. “For that matter, neither is Hal!”

“Gardner,” Bruce snaps, “He doesn’t know.”

That seems to give him pause. 

“Fuck,” finally crackles over the line. Then, with more feeling, “ _Fuck._ Wait, how do you know?”

“Stewart’s last reply from Oa - Hal had already left on sector patrol when the news reached there. We have to tell him about Coast City - before he finds out the hard way.”

“...Okay, I’m _so_ coming back to ask how you know the content of league communications later. But, seriously, are you shitting me? You want _me_ to tell Jordan his home is gone!?”

It’s a good thing they’re talking voice-only, because Bruce definitely fails to hide his wince at that.

“No. I’m sure there could be a _worse_ way to break it to him, but if so I can't think of it,” he replies, voice as dry as a beached whale. “Just - keep him in space for a bit. I’ll handle it. Batman out.”

That’s how Bruce ends up climbing back into the suit barely an hour after stripping it off. Even as he’s suiting up, he tries to call Diana. Her cell phone doesn’t even ring; she must be out of service. He spares a thought to hope she’s just out of cell range and not on Themyscira before he tries her league communicator. Unfortunately, it seems it seems his luck has run out. Even the satellite-networked based Justice League comms are unable to pierce the magic that hides the Amazonian’s ‘paradise’ island; he can't get through. 

After a beat, he dials Queen.

“Yo, it’s Oliver. Lay it on me,” the archer answers. His voice is less sleep-drawled and more intoxication-slurred.

“Are you drunk?”

“Okay, _one,_ it’s like, the middle of the night here, drunk is a perfectly reasonable thing to be. And, _bee_ , why the eff would I answer for you if I was sober.”

Bruce doesn’t respond at first; it always takes him a minute to put on his ‘dealing with Oliver Queen’ hat. Evidently the silence comes across the line as judgemental, because the other man sighs.

“No, I’m not drunk, but I’m not exactly - _hgph_ \- firing on all cylinders here, either, so...”

Another voice filters through, as if the speaker called toward the phone’s mic from further away from the pick-up. “By which he means, he’s high as a kite,” it drawls.

“Eff you, I haven’t gotten high off codeine since I was, like, 25,” Oliver snarks back.

Bruce hears a faint sound, like a snort, and the voice continues. “You wanna set the bone first, or let me remove this mother-humping knife in your side.”

“Hey, don’t insult that knife. Personally, I’m. _Delighted_ with the way it’s been keeping... my insides where they belong - on the _inside."_

Bruce considers asking where the knife came from before dismissing the idea. As things stand, he doesn’t exactly care. 

“Oh, right,” Oliver suddenly remembers he’s on the phone. “What did you. Need, B?”

Bruce shakes his head. “Nothing you can help with right now,” the Dark Knight finally answers.

“Well. Right, okay, cool. Minor surgery happening here, gotta go,” Queen says, before both men hang up.

Of those who were there at the beginning, Ollie and Diana are apparently not available. Barry is dead. J’onn should be aboard the watchtower, so in theory he could recruit the Martian for backup. 

Bruce isn't sure he has a working number for Dinah at the moment, and she’d turned in her communicator when she lost her voice. Also, he has no idea how their friendship might have been impacted by the split. He can't imagine there being any ugliness involved - but then, the only subject he ever really failed is 'normal human interaction'. 

Which only leaves... Kal El - and there are just, too many reasons that going to him right now would be a capital-B Bad idea.

So, after sending an alert to Alfred, Bruce steps directly from one corner of the cave straight to the League’s lunar base through the power of Zeta technology. As usual, there is a momentary feeling like his stomach is being vacuumed out his throat while butterflies crawl across his limbs. Then the disorientation passes, and he strides from the transport room aboard the watchtower. 

He doesn’t have to go far before he runs into someone. Captain Marvel's smile is blinding, like the lightning bolt that is his symbol. He’s obviously forgiven Batman for his hasty exit from the League; Bruce doubts that any of the others would be so welcoming.

(Not that Bruce particularly cares. He still hasn’t forgiven the league for abandoning him when Lucius was in trouble.)

“Batman! How’s Gotham? Long time no see, man!”

Bruce slips straight past the small talk. “Have you seen J’onn recently? Or Lantern?”

Marvel’s face falls. _Ah,_ Bruce thinks, _he must have heard._

“I think he went with Guy actually. They should be back any minute.”

Bruce “hmm”s in acknowledgement. Before he can turn to go, Marvel continues: "It's a good thing what you're doing - making sure he hears it from you. So that he… so he has a friend, to support him." 

And Bruce feels a brief urge to correct the red-suited hero. To scoff, to say: "It's not like that. But _somebody_ has to make sure the loose cannon with a power ring - loose warhead? - doesn't lose it when he finds out what happened to his home. What we _let_ happen to his home." 

(He doesn't. In reflection, he supposes his actions really _aren’t_ that different from those of concerned friend.

Is that what they are? After all the years of friction, of mutual, vocal discourtesy laid over grudging respect - is Hal Jordan his friend? Is he _Jordan's_ friend?)

Bruce types out a message to Gardner on his communicator. “Mtg room, E-2. Let me know when you have him,” it reads. Then he sits back to wait.

Of course, the brash Lantern can’t even follow such simple instructions. He hears nothing until the moment Guy appears, Hal and J’onn in tow. J’onn and Bruce have a silent conversation - not psychically; the Martian knows how the Batman feels about his mental privacy. It's all there in nonverbal cues instead: a subtle tilt of the head, a flash of the eyes, a blink, a nod. And then J’onn exits, closing the door behind him.

“Did I miss the memo about Batman rejoining the league?” Jordan ribs as he takes a seat. Bruce gives him a once over, taking in the new lines around his mouth and the sling of construct-green that cradles his left arm against his chest. “For that matter, I’m pretty sure the JL’s resident Green Lantern just left this room. What are we doing here?”

“Considering how often you Lanterns seem to barely prevent the end of life, the universe, and everything, even non-league members can be... concerned with your reports,” Bruce deadpans.

Hal goes to cross his arms, seemingly forgetting about the sling for a brief moment. With a frown he dissolves it, leaving only a wrist cast, before he slouches in the chair. “An Adams reference, B? You know, you are not quite as funny as you think you are.”

“Hrmm. Does that mean you have nothing to share?” 

“Oh, do I _ever_.”

And, sure, maybe at first he just needed a pretense to divert Jordan to the watchtower. But then the lantern starts on how - _once again_ \- he and his fellows have apparently prevented the end of the universe. Batman listens to the tale, mini-comp recording and transcribing everything to later distill into a report. 

(It can be easy to forget how large and bizarre the universe is. That is, until a lantern says something that reminds you: they’ve likely forgotten more about the obscure reaches of the cosmos then the rest of Earth’s heroes have ever known.)

"Anything else you’d like to add to the record?" Bruce asks when the tale is finally over.

"Other than that I could have happily gone my whole life without witnessing the existential crisis of near-omniscient beings? Nah."

"Big words, for a space cadet."

"Watch it, that's space _private_ to you, Bats." Bruce rolls his eyes behind the lenses of his cowl.

"And the sector...?"

“Heh. Yeah, turns out I’m not as immune to a good-ole Guardian guilt trip as I thought - 's why I took the long way home,” Hal offers. “There’s another half-dozen systems in 2814 that could stand a check in, but there was no route that didn't put Earth between them and me. So I'll spend a bit of time dirtside before I finish out the patrol."

Bruce nods, and gives in to the inevitable. "My turn, then?"

"Can you make it the reader's digest version? Or, better yet, hold that thought while I go hit the head. I've needed to take a piss for light-years," He grins at the pun, and Bruce sighs. 

"Charming. Fine."

It's then that Batman miscalculates. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last, but later he will regret becoming distracted to the point where he doesn't think twice about letting Hal leave the room. In his defense, the next part is going to be the toughest, so he's busy marshalling his thoughts instead of worrying about supervision. 

This is _not_ a conversation he wants to enter without a plan, so he's running through all the ways it could go in his head. The best he's come up with, so far, runs something like this:

_"So, I believe you were still on Oa to hear the news about Superman's death."_

_"Yeah. That was a shock. I still can hardly believe that he's gone."_

_"Well, he's… not, exactly. It didn't stick."_

_"No shit? You know what, I'm not even all that surprised. Man, the stuff we deal with."_

_"Yes - it is a strange universe we live in. When the Supermen announced themselves, most of us assumed they were all fakes, trying to usurp the legacy. But, as it happens, one of them actually was Kal El."_

_"Wait, wait. Rewind - Super_ men?'

_"Mhm, yes. Actually, one of them is in the league now - I believe he's decided to go by 'Steel.'"_

_"Hang on, I thought you said Clark was back. Are there_ two _'men of steel' on the moon these days?"_

_"About that."_

_And Hal, well… he may be_ dumb _but he's not_ stupid _. Bruce wouldn't be surprised if he saw where this was going… at least in part._

_"Oh no. Let’s see - did he come back with… no powers? No memory of being Superman? Or, hang on, maybe just plain crazy?"_

_"Let’s leave it at ‘not in his right mind’," he would answer. "He swears he's back to normal now, but..."_

_"Oh no. Has the big bad Batman not forgiven the boy scout?" Bruce can almost hear the obnoxious, childish tone of Hal's teasing in his head. "I thought you were, like, besties."_

_"Jordan. He_ killed _people."_

 _"...Bats, you do know_ I _have killed people… right?"_

_"That's different. Have you ever taken a life that you could have avoided? Killed someone that you could have spared, without endangering your fellows, the Corps, or a galaxy worth of Innocents?"_

_And Bruce knows Hal well enough to answer that himself, regardless of his confusion over Cap calling them 'friends'. He imagines the Green Lantern brushing off the question._

_"So, you're saying, there was an evil Superman running around for a while there?"_

_"More like… two. Or, perhaps, one-point-five would be more accurate.*_

_"What. Does that even_ mean _?"_

_"One of the others had everyone convinced he was the real thing. Same DNA, put back together with kryptonian technology… turns out, the so-called 'Cyborg Superman' was not only a fake, but in league with an alien called Mongul. Together, they planned to take revenge on the Earth and, out of the ashes, rebuild a planetary-scale weapon called War World to conquer the galaxy… or so I gather."_

_And then, Bruce would probably pause. He might even struggle to get the last bit out. It was a blessing that those Hal cared about most had survived; Jim Jordan and his family were safe, settling into their new lives in San Francisco. And Carol Ferris - Bruce had never quite been able to figure out what she and Hal were to each other, and he often doubted they themselves knew. Thankfully, Carol was at Ferris at the time, the airfield far enough into the desert to be out of the destruction corridor._

_“Hal,” he’d have to say. “I’m so sorry. But the rest of Coast City… nearly 7 million souls…”_

Suddenly, Bruce sits forward in his chair. “Watchtower,” he snaps, “Locate Green Lantern.” 

A tone sounds, and the Watchtower interface responds:

_ >>Signature consistent with Green Lantern Guy Gardener’s power ring present on deck 3-Bravo: Cafeteria. << _

“Watchtower, locate other Green Lanterns.”

_ >>No other Green Lanterns aboard this installation.<< _

Warned by his flash of intuition, Bruce is already sweeping out of the meeting room before she finishes. But Bruce didn’t involve himself in the design of the league’s headquarters for nothing; the mic in his cowl seamlessly integrates with the Watchtower’s mainframe any time he is aboard. 

“Extend search parameters,” he commands.

_ >>Lantern power signature approaching planetary surface. Trajectory indicates intercept: western seaboard.<< _

He growls. _Of fucking course,_ he thinks as he calls up Alfred.

"Start the pre-flight on the jet for me? I'll need to be taking it cross-country."


	2. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then: When Batman got warning of a Green Lantern approaching, he had Hal diverted to the Watchtower so he could share some unfortunate news. He's debriefed Hal on his long mission away, but has not yet had the chance to warm him...

Hal hums to himself as he strides through the Watchtower corridor, glad to be back in human space. He's looking forward to eating real beef, breathing deep the unfiltered air (somewhat polluted, yes, but in the way that tastes like _home),_ and sleeping for about a week. 

Unlike most of life on Earth, the natives of his last patrol stop had radial, rather than bi-lateral, symmetry. Their six sets of limbs, spaced evenly around their bodies, made them resemble nothing so much as octopi, and their form had affected every science and art their species developed. Architecture and design, especially; every settlement consisted of circles within circles, spirals, loops, whirls, and curves - not a straight line to be found.

And he may not have made it all the way to Earth, yet, but the lunar watchtower is still - mostly - a product of Earthling ingenuity. Flat, vertical bulkheads; rectangular doorways in the walls; a corridor made up of straight line segments; the simple geometry is refreshing. 

As is the familiarity. Unlike parts of Coast City's ever-expanding sprawl, the watchtower has never yet been remodeled past the point of recognition while he was away. He hasn't kept quarters on the moon for a while though, so he makes for the restrooms across from the general mess. 

He hears voices before he rounds the corner. And, really, anyone who thought the complimentary names of 'Fire' and 'Ice' meant the girls were today's premier League pairing, had obviously not accounted for _these_ two idiots.

"What the-? Beetle, your damn suit's locked up on me again," Booster Gold grouses from up ahead.

"I see that. What did you do this time?" 

"What! It's not _my_ fault." 

"Uh-huh. Hang on, looks like the training restrictions protocol is acting up again." 

"Ted! You put a _limiter_ on my suit? What if it malfunctioned when we're in combat?"

"Oh, cool it, Booster. Skeets and I'll come up with something better for the final version." The scientist-entrepreneur 'hmms' into a mini-comp as the pair comes into Hal's view. "Besides, if you'd activated the thrusters at _that_ power setting, either the armor would'a held and you'd have decompressed this wing when you punched through the decks, or… well, it wouldn't have, and you'd have gone 'splat' on the deck-head. Hey, Lantern." 

The gold-suited hero startles, then staggers around to face Hal when his suit finally unlocks again.

"Blue. Booster," Hal acknowledges the young Leaguers with a pair of nods. 

"Welcome back to the solar system," the Blue Beetle offers, still distractedly peering between the comp and his friend's bulky suit. (Idly, Hal wonders where the futurite's usual tech went.)

"Come on, Goldilocks. The sooner you learn how to fly without a psychic flight-ring, the sooner we can take the training wheels off," he goads blithely.

"Training wheels!" Booster grumbles. Then, as he starts to follow his friend, "See ya, Lantern. Sorry about Coast City. It's a total bummer, man."

And Hal just… blinks at his retreating form, while Booster Gold clunks away down the hallway.

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ he puzzles. 

And Hal, he hardly knows Michael Carter, but he's heard things. About how Booster has a tendency towards casual spoilers, to referencing things that, in his 25th century mindset, are 'ancient history'. Ducking into the bathroom, he's tempted to brush the comment off as such. But there's this vague sense of… unease that settles over him. He turns the lock behind him.

"Ring, scan for news of Coast City." he commands.

In the long moment before the ring responds, Hal begins to relax. 

Then, the scenes of devastation begin.

Hal doesn't know how long he stands there, back pressed against the locked door. The images, the reports, just keep coming, replayed in high-definition audio, with chartreuse visuals of talking heads. The moment feels infinite, the images endless - although, no one bangs on the door, or appears to interrupt, so it can't have been all that long.

When disbelief gives way to realization, and then despair, he cuts off the flow of images. Unbidden, a memory of Guy's voice pops into his head. _"Batman's requested a debrief. A 'State of the union'-verse or whatnot. And, he's got... some news, for you as well."_

And, _God,_ where was his sense of forbidding _then??_

He must phase right out through the nearest hatch, because Hal has no memory of leaving the Watchtower. The next thing he knows, he's in space a hundred thousand miles from the lunar surface - almost halfway to Earth - and too numb to even fear what he will find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter?? Hal's POV is about to get ~really~ hard to write what with all the eMoTiONs he's going through :/  
> I already have the next Bruce chapter done, and the one after that in draft stages, so I'm still waffling on doing more interludes... any feedback/opinions would be lovely!  
> Also, I would love love love any ideas/hcs for where y'all would like to see this going,, turns out I have more directions this could go than I know what to do with! Obvs is gonna be a fix-it of sorts for Emerald Twilight b/c even though I liked that comic well enough I'm older now and just find it so pAiNFull and ~uNnecessary~


	3. Emerald Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman's attempt to warn Hal Jordan of Coast City's destruction did not go according to plan. Now, the Green Lantern has flown off toward his former home, and Bruce is in pursuit...

Commercial aircraft regularly make the trip from Gotham to Coast City in almost exactly five and a half hours (or at least, they used to, when the latter still had an airport to land at).

Commercial aircraft generally aren’t rated for mach one.

Batman's experimental jet - a successor to the craft Dick Grayson once dubbed the ‘Batplane’ - is. It also has a considerably higher ceiling; he doesn’t fly _under_ the radar so much as over it. Rapidly climbing to altitude - and burning through a solid month of his fuel allowance to do so - Bruce carefully leaves controlled airspace before opening the throttles. 

Still, even traveling faster than the speed of sound, it will take nearly three hours to get to the other coast - plenty of time for something to go wrong.

Once the autopilot is set, Bruce links his communicator to the jet’s on-board CNI suite. There’s only the barest chance Hal is willing to listen to him at this point, but he has to try. 

“Computer, record for transmission. Message beings: ‘Lantern, hold your position. I’m enroute - ETA 0650.’” 

“...I’m sorry, Hal,’” he adds quietly after a pause. “End recording.”

_> >Recording complete. Designate message recipient.<<_

"Hal Jordan."

_> >Recipient: Green Lantern Hal Jordan confirmed. Message transmitting.<<_

Now, Bruce just has to hope he'll _listen_ to the damn thing. Not having the League-issued device on them has never prevented a Lantern from receiving messages - see: power ring - but, that assumes Hal's not deliberately ignoring his mail.

Piggy-backing off of the watchtower system, he configures one of the displays to keep track of the Green Lantern’s power signature. As he flies, it remains locked on the coordinates for Coast City. Far from reassuring the Batman, his unease only seems to grow the longer he stares at the motionless icon.

Suddenly, the green blip brightens. “Watchtower. What was that?” he snaps.

 _> >Green Lantern power signature increased approximately 600%,<<_ the digital voice relays.

“Meaning what?”

_> >... Apologies. I am unable to assist with that query at this time.<<_

Realizing he has the controls in a death grip, Bruce forces his hands to unclench. 

_Dammit, Jordan,_ he thinks with a mental growl, _For once in you life, could you_ not _make things_ more _difficult._

The spike in ring power confuses the Watchtower's sensors, enough that he is unable to pinpoint Hal's location to anything less than an 80 square-mile radius. Without better location data, Bruce resorts to pulling Hal's last known address from the League's files to use as his destination. He plots the most direct route to the coordinates he can, while staying away from heavily controlled airspace.

The whole flight over North America, Bruce feels like he is trapped in an hourglass slowly filling up with sand. He watches the navigational computer with a fixed gaze, but even an improbable tailwind fails to shave more than a few minutes off his original ETA. 

And then, finally, he's descending through the last cloud deck. But instead of revealing the anticipated debris field where a city once stood, the Batplane is rapidly approaching an impossibility. Radar, infrared - every sensor available in the state-of-the-art jet - are absolutely convinced of the continuing presence of the late, great Coast City.

With a few deft motions, Bruce dismisses the heads-up-display and drops the polarization on the cockpit window. When his eyes adjust to the sudden glow, Bruce sucks in a breath. 

The city’s there, alright - but it’s _green._

 _Well,_ Bruce muses as he descends toward his destination, _I suppose we’ve found the source of that power surge._

The nearest he can get to Hal's apartment is the open space of a neighborhood park, the grassy expanse unnaturally vibrant. As he sets her down, he thanks whatever foresight lead him not to spare the expense of cramming VTOL capability in alongside the jet's quiet supersonics.

Climbing out of the cockpit is surreal. He glances around in the morning half-light that followed him across the continent to get his bearings. From within, the construct-glow seems much subtler than it did from above. Still, he doesn't linger. 

He doesn't start to notice the colors until after he's left the park. He's studying the shadows, pondering how a lamp post made from the green light of willpower can possibly cast a shadow on the adjacent wall. (But it is.) Meanwhile, his mind is continually cataloging other details: an awning flapping in the barely-felt breeze; the 'OPEN' sign glowing in a shop window; the donut shop on Hal's block.

The sign for the shop is conspicuous. "COSMIC DO-NUTS," it reads in glaring neon, a psychedelic design covering the rest of the storefront. Bruce has to pause, take another look. Everything on the street, including the street itself, are all construct-green. Yet somehow, he can still distinguish individual colors. He can tell that the entrance of the Chinese restaurant to his left, for example, is painted red, and 'see' the blues, purples, and pinks in the mural across the road. Like most of the impossible things Batman deals with, it makes him frown.

Aside from the concrete under his feet, the front door to Jordan's walk-up is the first thing Bruce touches in the strange ghost city. He places his gauntleted hand flat in the center, first, testing its solidity, before moving to turn the knob. The door behaves just like the real thing: the latch clicks, faintly audible, and the hinges squeak as it opens.

Inside, Bruce mounts the stairs to Hal's third floor apartment. He lets himself in without ceremony, already guessing what he will find.

He can tell the place is empty. He hadn't _really_ thought it would be that easy, and is annoyed with himself for the brief flare of disappointment that stabs at his gut.

Batman searches the apartment, trying to carry on like it's any other night, any other case in Gotham. Only, this target isn't limited to conventional earthly methods of travel - or the signs they leave behind. There’s not even any mail to look through, and no computer for him to hack. 

_(Could such a thing even be done on a device made entirely from willpower?_ he wonders briefly, then snorts. _Why not? Knowing Hal, he probably checks his hotmail on his power ring.)_

Out of curiosity, Bruce takes a pen out of one of the kitchen drawers full of odds and ends and examines it. On the construct equivalent of a notepad, he writes:

“Hal - 

Answer your phone.

-B”

The sheet he tears off the top feels just like the real thing. He attaches it with a magnet to the fridge, on the off-chance Jordan comes back here after Bruce has gone. Otherwise, there’s nothing in the illusory apartment worth lingering over.

Still, he hesitates in the living room. 

As a test, Bruce picks up the remote from the corner of the coffee table, points it at the TV, and clicks the power button. He’s almost comforted when he doesn’t get a picture - _'Days of Our Lives'_ in this eerie green ghost town would have been too much.

It does, however, show _something._ The screen fills in with the pixelated static of an old analog antenna, the kind that hasn't been seen since TV signals all went digital. 

He’s about to turn it back off when something stops him. _That’s funny. For a second there, it almost looked like..._

Batman’s eyes narrow under his cowl. He activates the recorder in his lenses and observes in silence as the image resolves. It lasts just long enough for Bruce to see what he needs, and then is gone.

Bruce leaves the apartment. From back on the street, he makes a call.

“You've reached Delphi, leave an offering after the beep. And remember, specific questions yield specific answers; general questions yield only general confusion.”

“Oracle, it’s Batman. I need a favor-” he begins. A tone sounds, and Babs picks up.

“Batman, need a favor from _moi?”_ Barbara Gordon asks.

“Screening your calls now?”

“Only with Dinah on the other line. That woman is going to give me ulcers before I turn 30, I swear. But, I figure it must be urgent if you’ve bothered to call. What do you need?”

“I need you to find any known addresses for Martin and Jessica Jordan of Coast City, going back 30 years.”

“Hal’s parents?” she asks. For once, it actually sounds as if he managed to surprise her.

“Yes. The information wasn’t in his Justice League file.”

“And you should know, since you compiled most of those.”

“I did not realize it would ever be pertinent. An oversight on my part, obviously.”

She snorts. “Obviously. Okay, I’m on it. Assuming Dinah doesn’t get herself trapped in a hellmouth, it’ll be my highest priority.”

“Call me when you have something.”

“Will do,” she assures him. 

“Bruce,” she adds, tentative, “I assume this means he’s back?”

Bruce takes in the glimmering emerald city around him for a moment before he responds. “It would appear so."

Batman is perfectly capable of patience, but in this case he has zero inclination to sit on his hands while he waits for Oracle to do all the heavy lifting. After a careful examination of the immediate area on his mini-comp - both the scans from his brief flyover and the map data from before the city’s destruction - he has decided on a direction. 

Despite the impression from above, only about half of the city has been reconstructed. And, from what Bruce can tell, the resurrected segment doesn’t appear to be focused around any notable landmark. Nor does it line up with the center of the destruction corridor. He’s not sure what, if anything, that signifies - but it may just be worth investigating. 

Like Metropolis, Coast City is not nearly as Bat-friendly as his native Gotham. Bruce uses his grapel to get some height, but finds himself doing as much roof-running as flying as he makes his way north to the center of the phenomenon. As he moves, his eyes never stop scanning his surroundings. Of course, most of what he observes is just a general green-ness.

(Over the years, he’s seen Jordan create plenty of constructs. Shields, bubbles, walls, and cages of all sizes; the classic, giant green fist that human lanterns instinctively reach for; hammers, or the odd anvil when the Green Lantern is feeling playful. He’s seen Hal construct fighter jets for various purposes, marvels of engineering accuracy, lovingly reproduced - and existing completely in defiance of the laws of physics. 

But _none_ of it comes close to approaching the level of detail that surrounds him now, much less the scale. The city is beyond impressive. If he were anyone else, he'd say it approached frightening - especially once he notices the ghosts haunting the streets.)

He’s swinging over a wide lane below when it registers. Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce spots the ‘people’ for the first time, and from that point on he can’t unsee them. They appear to be going about their daily routines, walking and talking and just generally _living_ \- as if the attack, the explosions, never interrupted life at all.

Glancing forward and then back, Bruce notes with satisfaction: there are more of the wraithlike figures in the direction he is going than where he’s come from. For several blocks, their numbers continue to increase - never quite reaching a realistic density. Between that fact, the utter lack of traffic on the roads, and the half-heard murmur of indistinct voices drifting up from the streets below, Bruce thinks the term “ghost town” has never been so perfectly embodied. 

Even for the "Dark Knight" of grim Gotham City, it’s... unsettling.

Aside from the number of pseudo-people, there's nothing remarkable about the central zone when he reaches it. After a quick recon of the area, he decides to continue on in the same direction, at least until ghost density drops off again - or Babs calls with information.

Commercial squares gradually give way to residential blocks, which morph into something classically suburban, until Bruce is walking, in full Batman regalia, down a neighborhood street in morning light. If the green and lucent quality of the city’s population hadn’t already pinged his sense of _wrongness,_ the way they completely fail to react to his presence would have sounded alarm bells.

When his mental map shows he's as far again away from the center as the apartment, Bruce stops. The neighborhood he finds himself in consists mostly of small, ranch-style homes that look to date from around 1970.

 _It can't really be_ that _easy..._

He pulls up the recording from earlier and studies the image as it resolves out of static: in the right foreground, the back of a leather-clad elbow and shoulder, the forearm laid on a tabletop; Bruce would recognize that jacket anywhere.

Two, less distinct figures - a man and woman - sit on the other side of the table. He catalogs additional details: the striped wallpaper; appliances and fixtures that look like they came straight out of the 70s or 80s; the impression of gauzy lace window curtains.

That the kitchen from the TV screen would fit right in this neighborhood _could_ be a coincidence.

But his gut tells him that it’s not. It seems more likely that the center of the phosphorescent sector was actually significant; it just happened to be a midpoint, halfway between two places of significance. 

He can't resist checking for anything from Barbara, though he knows he wouldn't have missed her call. All is still silent on that front. After a moment's internal debate, he stalks straight up the walk to one of the homes, cowl and all.

A woman, half translucent, answers at his knock. Bruce clears his throat.

"I'm looking for the home of Mr. or Mrs. Martin Jordan?" He tries not to growl, but sound friendly and polite; Alfred raised him, after all.

She beams at him, revealing the crow's feet around her eyes and the crease of a dimple to one side of her smile. Raising one green-tinted arm, she points. Bruce turns to follow where she indicates. The house she indicates is only two down, across the street. Bruce, despite doubts as to the state of her general existence, courteously thanks the neighbor.

As he approaches the Jordans' home, the sense that he's somehow ended up in a Dalí painting sharpens. Bruce does his best to shake it off, to quit searching his peripheral for a flaming giraffe, as he decides on the direct approach. It's possible the Lantern already knows he's there, and - for once - he doesn't see much benefit in arriving unobserved.

(He can almost hear Jordan's voice in his head. _What, not sneaking around this time, Spooky?)_

The moment when Hal actually answers the door seems to stretch forever, and at the same time happen much too fast. The other man is facing away to begin with, looking back over his shoulder. It gives Bruce a perfect view of the silver-grey streak at Hal's temple, and he notes how much wider it seems than he remembers.

The second he turns and sees Bruce, a mask falls over Hal's face. Not his literal mask - he's out of uniform in his habitual flight jacket, the only green light emanating from the cast poking out of one sleeve - but any visible expression is completely wiped away.

"What are you doing here?" he demands, voice tight.

And, perhaps, it is the memory of Marvel's voice in his head that makes Bruce answer the way he does. It’s not exactly what he had planned to say.

"Checking in on a friend."

Jordan's eyes narrow. "I'm fine," he snaps.

And, oh, if Bruce wasn't feeling out of his element before, he certainly is now. He resists the urge to snark, _"Oh, because_ this _is such a healthy coping mechanism."_

"Jordan. Hal," he says instead, "I know loss can be- it's terrible to feel like you fai-"

Hal's nose flares in anger. "Stop, just - stop right there. _I_ didn't fail this city. Superman - the whole damn _league_ may have failed my city, but not _me._ I could - I would _never…"_

He sputters to a halt briefly, but not long enough for Bruce to figure out what to say. "I'm _doing_ something about it. _I've_ brought it _back_ \- I've brought it _all_ back."

"Hal," Bruce tries, but then stalls.

 _There's no training for this,_ he mentally despairs. With a deep breath, he reaches up to tug back his cowl. If Jordan is startled by the action, he doesn't show it.

"Hal," he finally manages, face bare over his suit. "It's not real. How can it be? They're all gone."

The heat of Jordan’s glare could rival Superman's in that moment. "Seems pretty real to me."

"Then tell me something… where is the wildlife? The song of birds, the squirrels in the trees?" Bruce realizes his mistake almost as soon as he speaks; the first birdcall sounds even as he's snapping his mouth shut. A moment later, a squirrel scampers due out of a tree stand across the lawn. Hal gives a meaningful look, as if to ask, "You were saying…?"

There are a half-dozen other discrepancies he could point out. But Bruce has a feeling the ring - and Hal - would just fix them as soon as he brought it up. He needs to take another tack.

"And your parents?"

Jordan's posture shifts to the defensive. "What about them?"

"They're in there?" At Hal's wary affirmative, he adds, "Then tell me something. That jacket you wear - where did it come from?"

"What do you mean? It was my dad's."

"And he asked you to look after it - while he flew, isn't that right?"

Jordan jerks his head in a sharp nod.

"Then why did he never take it back?"

When Hal doesn't answer, Bruce continues, as gently as he knows how. It's not something that comes naturally; he's usually more a 'ripping off the band-aid' type. "Hal. Why was it your mother didn't want you to join the Air Force? Why didn't she want you to fly?"

"Because. She didn't want anything to happen to me - she was afraid I would get hurt."

Bruce purses his lips slightly. _You’re really gonna make me say it,_ he thinks. "Hurt? ...Or killed? Like the accident - like what happened to your father."

The lantern is shaking his head, denial holding him in her iron grip. "Hal, listen to me. You're parents _aren't_ here. I'm sorry. But they're gone - they were gone before the city was destroyed."

"No. No, they're right here," Hal denies. He whirls away from the door, ducking back into the house. And, he may just be imagining it, but the walls of the house seem more hazy and indistinct than they were before.. 

"Dad? _Mom!"_ Hal shouts.

Bruce follows, stepping warily through the doorway. Hal spins to face him from the kitchen to the left.

"But they were just _here._ We were - mom was -" He sputters to a stop.

Bruce's composure feels thin, like an eggshell waiting to crack, but his voice - as always - is steady.

"No, Hal. It wasn't real. Just your ring... showing you what you wanted to see."

Hal's right hand - which has been hanging stiffly by his side, where Bruce has studiously _not_ been looking - clenches tight. Bruce's eyes flick to it and back to Hal's face before the lantern suddenly brandishes his ring.

"No! No, bring them _back!"_ he commands, "Bring them _all back!"_

His feverish eyes reflect the lemon-lime glow of the power ring as it starts to shine. Streamers of light, like a localized aurora borealis, condense in the air around it. They dance as the glow brightens, causing Bruce to squint against the glare. Then, as suddenly as the strands appeared, they sputter and are gone. 

In the sudden dimness, the ring chimes. _> >Power levels at minimum reserve. Shutting down all non-emergency functions.<<_

 _"No,”_ the lantern chokes out, a single, strangled syllable as the walls around them fade to nothing. 

And, just like that, the two of them are the only things still standing. Around them is a wasteland - a wasteland that was once the thriving heart of Coast City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter estimate is up, but it's just a best guess based on my outline - I only have the next one written after this, and sometimes the words just get away from you :)  
> Thoughts/criticisms always welcome, and if you have any tips for tagging i'm new at this so please share!  
> As always, find me on tumblr [@daemons-not-rogues](https://daemons-not-rogues.tumblr.com)


	4. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman managed to locate Green Lantern in the ghostly version of Coast City. Now Hal's ring is depleted, and Coast City is, once again, merely rubble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Just noticed the chapter title got deleted, so fixed that. Also a couple of formatting issues that snuck by me.

Just like that, the two of them are the only things still standing. Around them is a wasteland - a wasteland that was once the thriving heart of Coast City.

An animal sound of pain comes from Jordan, shattering the silence. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he sways toward collapse. Before he can fall, Bruce lurches, grabbing the lantern by the lapels of his jacket and hauling him bodily away from a dangerous spur of rebar. They stumble, the ground under their feet suddenly uneven. Both men land heavily on their knees in the wreckage. 

Reflexively, Hal grabs on to B's gauntlets, hissing when the motion jars his wrist. The action reminds the heroes that his splint has disappeared with the rest of the city.

The silence settles back over them, heavy as a coffin lid. Hal's head hangs forward in defeat, and Bruce again regrets that he does not know what to say.

When the (purportedly) depleted ring flares to life, Bruce jerks. Hal's white-knuckled grip, fingers curled around gauntleted wrists, pulls him up short. There are a dozen different ways Batman could break the hold, even with a care for his injury, but he uses none of them. Instead, his attention is focused, drawn to the excessively large-headed hologram that has appeared in midair.

"Green Lantern Hal Jordan of Sector 2814," a disembodied voice booms. "For personal use of a power ring, the book of Oa-"

The intergalactic messenger cuts off mid-reproach. Bruce blinks in mild consternation at the ring in his open left hand, and braces himself for Hal's reaction. He swiped it almost entirely by instinct right off the lantern's finger, and though it’s not the first time he’s held a power ring, it says _something_ about Hal’s mental state that he was able to do so.

When Jordan doesn't immediately deck him for the theft, he's not sure if he should take it as a good sign… or a bad one. With a mental grimace, Bruce slips the ring into a belt pouch for safe keeping. 

Eventually, the other man raises his head. His voice is low and scratchy when he speaks.

"I figured out what you were trying to tell me," he says with a bitter, sad quirk of his lips. If Bruce's heart wasn't nearly as well-armored as his batsuit, it might even have broken at the expression. 

"In part," he says. 

Hal winces. "There's more? I don't think I want to know."

"You do," Bruce replies. "Coast City may be gone, Hal, but you're not alone."

Hal stands, finding strength in his anger. “You’re the _last_ one I expected empty platitudes from, B.” 

Bruce’s right knee creaks as he rises as well. He hides the exasperation as best as he can when he answers. 

“It's not a _platitude_. I'm trying to tell you that your _family_ is alive," he says.

Hal freezes at the declaration. Hurriedly, Bruce dives into the explanation. “Your brother Jim and his family? They weren’t caught in the attack. He and his wife, they moved the family to San Francisco in the aftermath. 

“And FAI - the company may have folded in the wake of the disaster, but the airstrip east of the city survived unscathed. As did everyone who was present - including its CEO, Carol Ferris.”

The lantern gapes at him. And, okay, Bruce could definitely have handled that better. He mentally marks another 'F' in the 'normal human interaction' column as Hal gives a strangled, incoherent scream.

_"Ohmyfuckinggod._ Why didn’t you start with that, you _asshole??"_ he yells. His face goes from ashen to crimson, his breath speeding up dramatically, and for a second Bruce thinks he’s going to have to catch the other man again. Then, Hal seems to steel himself. 

“They - they’re _alive?"_

“Yes,” Bruce assures. The words are full of disbelief, more an expression of wonder than a question, but he still feels he owes Jordan the reassurance. “Yes, Hal - they are.”

Of course, getting back to the jet is complicated by the disaster zone that was once a city. The smooth streets and orderly construction of Hal’s memory disappeared with the power of his ring. Bruce decides against attempting to summon the plane by remote, not sure what has become of the ‘park’ where he touched down.

Hal, it turns out, is not nearly as graceful on the ground as in the air. He’s in jeans and his flight jacket, and without the usual near-impervious Lantern Corps uniform, he collects a half-dozen bumps and scrapes before they’ve gone twenty feet. In part because, when he stumbles, he has only one good hand to catch himself. Bruce frowns as the lantern levers himself to his feet for the third time, and is tempted to suggest retrieving the plane himself and returning for the other man. Then again, he can just imagine Hal's reaction if he tries.

Under the circumstances, the ringless lantern isn't slowing them down all _that_ much. It's not like Bruce would trust any of the rubble to hold a grapple line, so they’re both hoofing it out the hard way. Without any blueprint of the city post-disaster, all they can do is follow the plane’s beacon - and make detours where necessary.

Bruce tries to keep to level ground, where, even strewn with debris, the remains of wide, Californian streets leave clear paths through the rubble. Unfortunately, one of those open paths has just run smack into a wall of concrete chunks and busted-up vehicles. 

"Suppose we could make it through there," Jordan says, pointing at a gap near the remains of a multi-storey building, where the blockage is a good eight feet lower than the rest - no more than six or seven above ground level. Bruce frowns, considering. His cowl is back up; no sense in foregoing even that protection in this wasteland. Of course, Hal has nothing more for armor than the leather and denim of his civies.

After a moment, Bruce judges it doable - even for a fly-boy with a busted wing - and leads the way up the slope. Halfway up, the sun slips behind a cloud. Bruce peers through the gap at the top; he finds the crevice opens in another five meters, and he can see a flat, open road on the other side. 

He's turning already, to check on Hal, when he hears the sudden, grating sound of shifting rubble, followed by a smoothered yelp. He whirls, cursing Lady Luck at what he finds. Her sense of timing is ruthless; Bruce is positive that he stepped on that exact same lump of concrete moments before. Only, when he chose it, it was wide, and flat, and stable-looking… not angled to the side like a trap door, the jaws of which have gobbled up Hal's leg.

"Hold still," he growls, starting back. 

"Nah, it's fine," Hal's saying. "Just- surprised me is all. Didn't even twist my ankle." He braces himself awkwardly, his good hand on one side, and his elbow on the other, preparing to pull the leg free.

"Jordan," Bruce commands, "Wait-!"

With an ominous ripping sound, Hal's leg comes free at the second tug. "Hunh," he blinks down at the gaping rip in his jeans, denim flapping to either side. "Ow," he adds, as the blood begins to seep from the roughly four-inch gash in his leg. 

"-there could be glass in the rubble," Bruce finishes. 

Hal shoots him an irritated look. "No shit?" he offers, "I think I found some." 

The small, compact pressure bandages of the Batsuit’s med kit are geared more towards gunshots and stab wounds than slashes, which generally glance off his armor. With a batarang, Bruce slices through Hal’s pant-leg over at the knee, and, between that and the supplies in his kit, the two of them manage to rig up something that will keep the cut closed until they get back to the jet. 

“Can you walk?” he asks after the wound is bound. 

Hal scoffs, “Can I walk. Of course I can walk.” The last is said with a mild grimace as he shifts weight onto the leg, but he wipes it away almost immediately and continues with a steady gait. Bruce lets him go ahead; having Batman blaze the trail doesn’t seem to have helped them so far. He keeps an eye on Hal’s leg for seepage, but the dressing holds. 

Suddenly, Bruce remembers his earlier call to Babs. This time, she answers in the first ring.

"Batman. I've got an initial address for you, though I haven't haven't had time to verify-"

"Actually, I was able to acquire that information on my own," he says smoothly, if somewhat cryptically, over her exposition.

After a delay, she comments with a voice as dry as the Sahara: "...You've found Hal, didn't you? And he's standing right there next to you."

"That would be safe to assume," Bruce responds, "There is some new data I could use assistance gathering, however." It might be his imagination, but he can almost hear her shaking her head. 

"Hit me with it,” she says.

"I need a map of Coast City, as up to date as possible."

"As in, post-Mongul-and-explosive-destruction up-to-date, or…"

"Yes. I'd like to prioritize this area-" He provides her with four streets, two north-south and two east-west, that bound a grid square containing both the jet and his current location.

There's a beat of silence at the request. "... Oh my God, you're actually _in_ California right now, aren't you. You're in Coast City, _in_ the destruction corridor, with no map and no supplies. You tracked Hal there and- wait." The rapidly rising pitch of her voice levels off. "If Hal is there, why don't- why can't you just fly out?"

"Unfortunately, that course of action is not available."

"Oh. Wow. He's grounded?" she whistles. "I bet Hal's _loving_ that."

"That is a... less than accurate statement. There was a program I had running, using available footage to synthesize 3D models of the area. I'm not sure how much it processed, but It should be useful in generating such a map."

"B. Are you telling me you need me to go to the cave for this?"

"I don't find that necessary, no."

“...”

Barbara growls, not a certified Bat-growl, but a deeply irritated noise that a smart man would find as intimidating. "I _knew_ you left those back-doors open for me for a reason," she mutters. "Alright, I'm on it. Oracle out."

He catches up to Hal soon after the call. The lantern has stopped, staring at the shattered remains of a neon Big Belly Burger sign. Bruce can see him struggle, as if the words are having to claw their way out of his throat. He waits.

"I.. I wasn't here when they needed me. I really _did_ fail them."

And Bruce, he may not be good at emotional speeches, or consoling the bereaved, but _this_ \- this a _lie,_ a blatant _untruth,_ and arguing? Telling someone when they are _wrong? That_ has never been his weakness.

"No, Hal. You were _exactly_ where you needed to be - where they needed you to be. It would have done them no good for you to save Coast City, only for the whole _universe_ to fall. _We_ failed them - and we failed you.

"We should have been there, Hal. And I'm so sorry that we weren't - that we were all too damn absorbed in our own problems, to look after your city. The way you trusted us to."

Hal’s eyes have gone wide, staring at Bruce as he speaks. He turns his face away, but not before Bruce catches a certain glimmer at the corners of his eyes. "Okay.” He releases a shaky breath. “Okay, I think- I think I need to hear what happened. Not just the news bites, the full story. I think- I'm ready. I mean, I’m not, but I need..."

And so, they finally have that conversation, the one Bruce so painstakingly constructed in his head hours before - and it goes not _at all_ like that. There's no twist ending, no big reveal, just a steady, inexorable descent into tragedy. Hal makes no jokes, has no light quips, because he knows what's coming. It's the single most somber and dispassionate conversation Bruce has ever had with the Lantern - and he would give his right arm to never have another one like it again.

The map, when it comes, arrives in bits and pieces, like tiles in a mosaic. Oracle calls him with a warning before she sends the first one, and to let him know the rest will be along as they finish rendering. The information doesn't immediately make the going any faster, but it does give Bruce hope they won’t waste the whole day making detours within detours as they try and find their way back to the plane. 

Unfortunately, even with the carefully plotted route, the return is not all smooth sailing. They're over three quarters of the way there when the run up against and obstacle the map did not show. B narrows his eyes at the gaping hole in their path, affronted. 

To one side, the hollowed out husk of an office tower still stands - if not entirely vertical. Across the gap, large slabs of pavement form a broken ramp, like massive stepping stones, down into the hole - and, on the right, the omnipresent pile of rubble has begun to tumble in as well. "Too wide to be a metro tunnel," he mutters, studying the scene. 

He'd almost forgotten Hal's presence - silent for the last mile - until he speaks. "There aren’t - _weren’t_ any subways in the city. CAT was all buses and trams. Maybe an underground parking structure?" he offers. Bruce “hmms” in acknowledgement. He pulls up the map again; the leaning office building is clearly marked, as is the pile of rubble, but straight in front of them _should_ be an intact road.

‘Should be’ isn’t going to get them anywhere, though. A shower of dust from the upper floors of the building helps decide him, and he turns away. They’ll skirt along the rubble until they can find a path around and back toward the jet. 

...Or until they can’t. He’s keeping a wary eye on their flank, where the debris field is steadily encroaching, and so is almost upon the second cave-in when he notices it. It’s narrower than the first, only twenty or so feet across, but runs in a jagged scar to their left and right as if the top blew off some sort of maintenance tunnel. 

Hal sighs. He points tiredly to their right, the only way out without giving in and backtracking; it also happens to be directly _away_ from the jet’s beacon. 

Bruce considers the fissure, frustrated by the delay it represents. His gaze settles on a slab of concrete that could justifiably be called a boulder, and the spear of embedded rebar thrusting out that looks as thick around as his wrist.

"Lantern," he calls to Hal as he anchors a line.

"What!" Hal approaches Bruce, making his way toward the edge.

Without further deliberation, Bruce wraps his free arm around Hal’s torso and steps off the edge. Hal gives a startled grunt, and hurriedly hooks his good arm over Bruce’s shoulder and around his neck.

“A little warning next time, Bats,” he squawks as they descend. 

Hal’s feet touch down first. The sunlight only reaches partway into the gap, leaving a distinct line halfway down the east wall. The floor - and their feet - are left in shadow, with a thick layer of soot covering what is visible. Checking the beacon again, Bruce nods in satisfaction; the tunnel points only a few degrees off-course. 

The darkness should feel oppressive, but it’s as if, out of sight of the mountains of rubble, a weight lifts ever so slightly off Hal’s shoulders. 

“Hey - what month is it?” he even asks when the silence has stretched too long.

Bruce leaves off pondering the lack of rats and other scavengers, to shift mental gears. "Hrmm. February."

"Winter? ...Guess I was still on Oan time." 

He's not calling out across a battlefield, or challenging Batman aboard the watchtower with the confidence - Bruce might once have called it brash arrogance - that comes from his years of authority in the Corps. He sounds different. It makes Bruce wonder - is this Hal? Or is it just the grief?

He finds himself paying more attention to his companion after that, though Hal does not continue the conversation. When the tunnel narrows starts to descend, the roof closing back over it, Bruce stops. 

"This where we get off?" Hal asks. He's looking around, as if a ladder will appear, or some other handy means to climb out. Meanwhile, Batman fires his grapple blind, arching it up and over the edge of the cave-in. It catches on _something _on the second try; Bruce sits back, throwing his whole weight against the line. Once he's sure it will hold, he turns to the lantern.__

____

"Jordan. This is your warning."

____

Hal rolls his eyes, but he steps up next to Bruce anyway, slinging his good arm around Batman’s shoulder. Bruce grabs him around the waist again; in another setting, they would look like nothing so much as two friends, drunkenly trying to hold each other up. 

____

"See, was that so hard?" he asks, as Bruce hits the retract and they both are pulled upward. Bruce's only response is a strained grunt.

____

Of course, all teasing has gone out of his manner by the time they have heaved themselves back up onto the surface. As Bruce gets his bearings, Hal's expression is once more shuttered against the destruction that surrounds them. 

____

And, whether the leg has actually started to pain him more, or he's just too weary to keep pretending it doesn't, Hal walks with a noticeable limp.

____

"Come on," Bruce offers, gruff, "we're almost there,"

____

____

The sun is high in the sky by the time they reach the jet. Thankfully, no rubble appears to be threatening the structural integrity of the craft. 

____

The cockpit, though it sits two, does not due so _comfortably._ Bruce transfers control to a secondary console, then 'shoos’ Hal to the main cabin. At his whine of protest, Bruce growls, exasperated, “You can have a turn when you’re not going to _bleed_ all over the controls.”

____

Hal's eyes light up, and for a second Bruce is expecting a child-like, _"you promise?"_ to come out of the lantern's mouth. Then, the light dims has he turns away. Bruce frowns.

____

In the cabin, he pulls out the plane's much larger, Alfred-stocked medkit from a bulkhead cabinet.

____

“Hey, you don’t think this needs stitches, do you?” Hal asks as he's sitting down on the nearest bench, propping his leg up on the seat. Bruce stops hunting for bandages and sets the suture kit pointedly on the bench. 

____

"What do you think," he replies.

____

"It's just, I've never actually done those with real needle and thread before, just-” He waves a hand in a way that, Bruce guesses, is supposed to illustrate ring-power. “You know?"

____

"Then I suppose it's a good thing _you_ will not be the one to do them, Here," he places two pills in the lantern’s hand before closing up the kit. At Jordan’s raised eyebrow, he grunts, “Antibiotics.”

____

He retrieves a bottle of water to wash down the meds, and is reaching for the makeshift bandage on Hal’s leg when another thought interrupts. Hal peers at him, bemused, as he gets up to retrieve a pair of power bars from another cache. “Better not to take those on an empty stomach,” he explains.

____

Bruce cleans, stitches, and dresses the wound, Hal watching him while he munches; whatever weaknesses he may have, squeamishness is definitely not one of them. “You’re good at that,” he compliments as B ties off the last stitch. 

____

“It’ll do,” is all he says. 

____

When he's all bandaged, Hal stands, trying out the leg. He makes an… interesting picture, the clean, fresh linen wrapping a muscular calf below the bloody, frayed hem of his sawed-off jeans.

____

"Uh, B? You got any… pants that aren't cut all to hell and covered in blood?" 

____

"Hang on. There should be- here." He hands over a pair of the customary, spare grey sweats, and does a polite half-turn so Hal can change.

____

“What about the wrist?” he asks as Hal kicks off his ruined jeans. 

____

"Eh, it's basically healed," he says.

____

Bruce turns back to give him a skeptical look; he can't imagine the other man putting up with a cast one _moment_ longer than necessary. He makes a 'give it here' sort of gesture, and prompts. "Then why was is braced at all?"

____

Hal gives a long-suffering sigh and places his wrist in Bruce's hand. 

____

"Well, you see, that's the thing about working with aliens. Sorry, I mean non-Kyptonian aliens. You remind yourself that they're not human, and try not to judge things - like, say, injuries - based on your species standards, right? But then, you see someone get a limb ripped off, and, okay, you flinch. You can't help it, it's a knee-jerk type reaction, even though you _know_ they're from Kyper, so it'll totally grow back."

____

Bruce, who has been examining Hal's wrist by feel, closely watching his expression for any sign of pain, tilts his head at the apparent non sequitur. "Your point being...?"

____

"Right, well, so we're post-battle, and yes, my wrist _is_ all swollen like an overstuffed sausage at the time, when a ring scan shows that I might've had a _tiny_ piece of the bone break off. Well, humans-"

____

Bruce interrupts him momentarily to confirm: "Ulnar styloid fracture?"

____

Hal blinks. "Uh, yeah. Think that's what they called it."

____

"With or without accompanying distal radius fracture?" He taps, lightly, on the side of Hal's arm over his radius.

____

"That's the other wrist bone? Uh, with."

____

When Bruce just 'hmms' in response, Hal launches back into his explanation. 

____

"Anyway, humans- everyone knows _we're_ not from Kyper, if you get me? There were some… over reactions, shall I say, you know, of the knee-jerk kind? So I tell them, okay, stop freaking out and look up what _human_ docs say. I'll do whatever it is, just stop actin' like I'm about to _die."_

____

"Anyway, next thing I know I have a half-dozen Lanterns, some of whom - get this- some of them don't even _have_ bones! And they're all reading Earth medical journals about orthopedics, and they're getting into it like it's _'Grey's Anatomy'_ on TV. Apparently, human medicine is _really_ fascinating to the rest of the universe." Hal looks mystified by this. His wild gestures have also freed the limb in question from Bruce's light grip, seemingly without realizing it. He drops his hands to his sides. "Point is, they unanimously agreed on the cast. Wouldn't leave off until I promised to wear it until I healed."

____

Bruce contemplates him as Hal trails off.

____

"How long ago?" he asks.

____

"Hmmm," Hal closes his eyes as he thinks, trying to convert the time into a unit that will make sense here on Earth. Bruce returns to the medkit, this time in search of a wrist brace or, failing that, splinting supplies.

____

"Nine, maybe... ten weeks? Give or take a week."

____

Bruce frowns, but smooths the expression away before he turns back around with the brace he's dug up.

____

"Well, if you promised," he says, handing it over.

____

"Great!" Hal snaps the brace on, suddenly energized as he bounces in place. "Now, when do I get to fly this bad girl?"

____

Bruce smirks. "Hmm. Not now, after those painkillers just you took."

____

Hal gapes at him. "You said they were antibiotics!" 

____

"Those, too."

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Honest question - do I need to tag for the medication in this? And if so, how would I go about it?
> 
> Comments fight writer's block, let me know what you think!  
> I still plan on posting every week or so, though I'm having trouble figuring out where to break the chapter after this - who knows, we may just end up with a super long one 😅


	5. Californication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then: Bruce and Hal managed to find their way out of the rubble of Coast City and back to the Batplane. Now B has to figure out where they go from here...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since DC's geography is about as internally consistent as… something that’s not very internally consistent, I thought I'd give you a heads-up in case my headcannon for places isn't the same as yours.  
> Basically, for this AU take the map of the US. Plop Gotham right down on the coast of New Jersey, south of NYC and east of Philly. Stick Coast City in SoCal, halfway in between LA and San Diego. (And wouldn't that be some kinda super-mega population center?)  
> I think of Star as more north/central California, on the coast somewhere north of San Francisco (like due west of Sacramento maybe?). And then Metropolis would be on the Delaware side of Delaware Bay. (For Central/Keystone I don't bother to think about it at all, because - well, Speedsters.)

For once, Bruce actually files their flight plan. Or, well, _a_ flight plan. The listed aircraft information and departure point have only the loosest relationship with the truth, but the route is more or less accurate. He hacks the FAA to drop the (forged) document onto their servers, only bothering because not doing so would seem more remarkable, if anyone bothered to check up on them.

He hesitates when filling in the destination. In the end he lists a small, private airfield (one of the many that won't ask any questions, for the right price) outside of San Francisco. 

(He'll take Hal to his brother Jim; surely being with family will be good for him?

_Why did that sound so much like a question, even in his head?)_

Hal is pouting, sitting in the seldom-used copilot seat as they take off. He's fiddling with the velcro on his brace, the medication Bruce slipped him wearing away at the tension in his shoulders. 

They're hovering just over the wreckage when a thought strikes Bruce. It slips out, uncharacteristically, before he has time to think.

"Can lantern batteries be destroyed?" 

Hal stills at the question. His shoulders tighten again. 

"Unfortunately," he answers. "Takes a hell of a stomping, but… yeah. They can be."

"Was yours…"

"In my apartment? Where I thought it would be safe, and, instead, it was destroyed along with the rest?" He gives a bitter laugh. "Yeah. Serves me right, I guess."

Carefully, Bruce offers: "It could - be buried? Under the rubble?" 

"I'm guessing you already scanned for it."

"After the disaster, yes." 

"Then no. Concrete and steel can't hide the signature of a power battery. Not from the Watchtower's sensors," Hal says. 

Bruce nods, accepting the statement as he points the nose of the plane to the north. The conversation peters out. 

Neither of them mentions the elephant in the cockpit: the depleted ring, with its Green Lantern Corps signet, which Hal has not yet reclaimed. Bruce has the ridiculous thought that he can feel its weight, like an anchor dragging at his utility belt. 

The quiet holds for so long that Bruce almost decides the meds knocked Hal out completely. When he finally speaks, it definitely sounds like he's headed that way.

"Bruce. Are we going to 'Frisco?"

"That was the plan, yes."

"Hm. Can we… not?"

Bruce turns to face him, hardly needing to pay attention to the controls while cruising. But Hal isn't looking at him.

"It's just - I mean. I'm really happy that they survived, okay. And I want to see them. I do, I just... I don't think I can _be_ happy right now? Is that-" He meets Bruce’s eyes. "Does that make sense?" his voice asks.

 _Am I a horrible person?_ his gaze wonders.

And Bruce suddenly is thrown back to his own grief, for his parents - for Jason. He remembers how, even on the brightest if occasions, it can just- hit you. Feel like it's swallowing you whole, between one moment and the next. How, you're never quite as over it as the people around you think… or think you should be. 

He blinks, banishing the sudden emotion. 

"Of course. I understand," is all he says. 

Not long after that, Hal actually _does_ nod off. Bruce double-checks his fuel reserves and updates his flight plan with their new destination. (Read: he hacks the FAA again and overwrites the original, backdating the time stamp.) After engaging the autopilot, he sits back with his mini-comp and arranges to have some things - discreetly - delivered to the hangar when they land.

Then, with a quick glance to ensure the lantern really is sleeping, he gives in to the urge to double-check the Corp's… unconventionally extra-terrestrial diagnosis.

_"Distal Radioulnar Joint (DRUJ) instability after distal radius fracture: a comparison between cases…"_

Hal wakes sluggishly from a light doze. He's feeling distinctly uncharitable over Bruce being sneaky with the pain meds, but will admit (at least, to himself), that he feels better for the few moments of unconsciousness.

(Or at least, he feels better until memory strikes. When Coast City's destruction starts playing itself out behind his eyes, he feels terrible for daring, even briefly, _not_ to feel terrible.)

He glances to his left - and his thoughts grind, momentarily, to a halt.

Because. 

_Bruce Wayne_ is sitting in the pilot's seat. 

And, _yes,_ okay, he realizes Bruce Wayne has been sitting there the whole time. Because Batman _is_ Bruce Wayne. So that follows.

But that was, like, _Bat_ Bruce, hero (anti-hero? vigilante? whatever) and Justice League founder. Not _Bruce Wayne_ , looking all rich-boy, media mogul, socialite-philanthropist, in his charcoal slacks and black turtleneck. (And, coincidentally, making Hal feel grubby in his worn, soot-stained tee and borrowed sweats.)

"Uh," he says, intelligently. 

Bruce glances up from the small computer screen, where he has apparently been working, and raises a single eyebrow.

Hal sits a little straighter in his seat, brain slowly coming back online.

"You changed?" he eventually manages.

"Yes," Bruce says. His tone is leading; the _"...and?"_ is implied.

Hal asks the first question that pops into his head. "E.T.A.?"

"We begin descent in another fifteen minutes. Landing around 1400 hours local."

Hal purses his lips. "And, uh. Where would that be?"

He can't quite decipher the non-expression on Bruce's face, even with all of it uncovered. 

"Star City.”

And- huh. He hadn't actually thought of that. Seeing Ollie - he assumes that's what happens next, at least - he takes a second to unravel how he feels about that. 

It's… surprisingly okay. 

He 'hmms' his acknowledgement, and - alright, now _that's_ interesting. Bruce actually appears to relax at his reaction, just a touch.

Which - Hal _did_ just say he wasn't ready to be happy, and Bruce's response to that _was_ to fly him to the city of the man who is, arguably, his best friend in the universe. But the thing is, Oliver would never _make_ you play at being happy about anything. (He might get you drunk when you start to depress him, suggest the hair of the dog for your hangover in the morning, but he'll also just let you... be. And be upset when you need it.)

Hal wonders about Bruce's thought process. Does he understand, that Arrow is the perfect friend to be _im_ perfect in front of? After all, if anyone has fucked up worse than you, it's gonna be Ollie; if anyone's been as low as you, felt as breakably-human as you... he glances at Bruce.

 _Yeah,_ he thinks, _I guess he does._

Suddenly it occurs to him. "Hang on. When did Ollie move back from Seattle?" he wonders aloud.

"Hnh. I believe it was after Dinah kicked him out."

"So, what - almost a year ago?"

Bruce shoots him a look. This one _clearly_ states: "I am not Oliver Queen's keeper." 

"I suppose that timeline fits."

Despite his wheedling, Bruce does not let him take over the controls for any part of their approach. "Jordan, I have a perfectly capable auto-pilot for that," he says.

"Okay, but you _did_ say I could fly her, some time when I wasn't going to bleed all over the place," Hal insists.

That eyebrow moves again, judging him. (And, okay, is Bruce doing that _all the time_ under the cowl?)

"And you want to waste it on a routine landing?" 

Hal opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. "Point," he acknowledges. 

Hal watches, keen, when Bruce depolarizes the cockpit and takes the controls to taxi the jet to a reserved hangar. He wonders briefly how much Bruce pays to get the locals to look the other way for something like this - he doubts very much their flight plan says anything about ‘experimental Bat-plane’. 

He’s so single-mindedly focused on the control suite that when Bruce stands up and leaves the cockpit, he’s left scrambling to follow. 

The young, male voice surprises him so much he almost stumbles.

"...Who the fuck was that?" he asks, once the twenty-something hipster on the airstair has handed over a duffel bag and is walking away.

"Delivery," Bruce answers, as if it were obvious. 

"To your _aircraft hangar?"_ Hal could ask. Only, he's pretty sure he'd just get the eyebrow thing again. So instead, he tries out a skeptical eyebrow of his own (or two, actually, since those muscles don't seem to want to move independently).

All he gets for the effort is the dubious pleasure of holding the over-sized duffel. Which - what?

"What?"

"We both needed a change. I keep spares, but you didn't have any clothes, so I called ahead. There's a sink in the lavatory if you want to wash up first…"

Bruce is explaining, but Hal's brain has gone into a tail spin. Specifically, he stalled out on the words _"you don't have any clothes."_ Because, yes, Bruce probably just meant it in the sense of not having something to change into, right that moment, but... see, he could have also meant it in the 'you don't have any clothes' - or any _things,_ period - kind of way, and it would be just as accurate. Because all of his possessions, everything he owned except his dad's flight jacket, the shoes on his feet, and maybe a few knick-nacks on a shelf on Oa… are gone.

It's… something of a revelation. He could stand there in shock, forever, if a single word didn't snap him out of it:

"Hal?" Bruce prompts, likely puzzled by his lack of movement.

"Yeah, I'll just- be a minute," he says.

He stands in front of the sink in the tiny lav in just the slightly too loose sweatpants, declining to look in the mirror as he scrubs a layer of grime from his face, neck and hands. He runs damp fingers through his hair a few times; he'll need a shower to get all the soot and dust out, but at least he shouldn't leave smudges of the stuff wherever he walks. 

The brown, canvas and leather duffle is well-stocked. Hal quickly takes inventory. There's a few pairs of jeans - that seem to be in his size, though Hal can’t remember the last time he shopped for them - and some shirts. A sweater that would probably be the softest thing he owns, even if he _did_ still have a closet back home. There's toiletries, socks, boxers and briefs; loafers that scream of the hipster's influence; even a pair of sunglasses. 

(They're aviators. It would be a stupid thing to start crying over, so he doesn't.)

He pulls out clean boxers, one of the pairs of jeans, and a shirt with baseball sleeves, then closes the bag. After hurrying into the clothes, he goes to find Bruce.

"The service in this hotel is pretty sweet," he says, trying for a joke that falls flat. There's a black Cadillac in the hangar off to the side plane; Bruce is loading a smaller bag in the trunk. "What, no Maserati?"

Bruce takes Hal's bag and throws it in as well. "The goal is to blend in, not stand out," he replies.

"And I'm guessing, wherever we're going, it's not the old Queen estate?"

Bruce doesn’t answer. He just climbs into the driver’s seat, leaving Hal to take shotgun.

From Oliver's horror stories of 'life on the edge,' Hal is expecting something much worse than the respectable brownstone in a solidly middle-class suburb that Bruce drives them to. They park the car facing up-slope; the street is on a steep hill that makes the row of townhomes look like the risers of a staircase, each building standing hip-to-knee with the one beside it

When Bruce points to the correct unit, Hal mounts the stairs to the landing. Not seeing a doorbell, he knocks. When the door opens, he almost turns around on the stoop to say they must have the wrong house. 

“You’re not Ollie Queen,” he tells the kid who has answered their knock. 

“What gave me away?” the teenager asks dryly.

“Heh. Oliver’s always been a little immature, but last I checked he looked out of grade school. What are you - 14? 15? Pretty sure there’s a classroom somewhere with your name on it. ”

“Fuck you, I’m almost 18. Plus, I’m _emancipated,"_ he retorts.

“Ooh, big word, kid. Too bad I’m pretty sure it doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

The kid rolls his eyes, but steps back enough for them to enter.

“OLLIE! Your friends are here, and this one’s a dick!” he hollers over his shoulder.

“In here!” a voice calls back. Bruce follows Hal inside, so the kid can close the front door behind them. 

He holds his hand out as Hal moves off, down the hall and through an open arch on the left wall. The boy looks surprised, but he accepts the handshake. 

“Bruce Wayne,” he offers, “and that was Hal-”

“Jordan!” Oliver exclaims from the other room, unknowingly finishing the introduction. The kid huffs.

“Connor Hawke,” the kid - Connor - introduces himself. He’s almost Oliver’s height, but in that lanky way like he’s still growing. His short hair is blonde, with that same hint of red that Oliver’s has, and stands out dramatically against his dark skin.

He must take Bruce’s resting expression as a form of judgement - another thing he seems to have in common with Queen - because he hastens to clarify. 

“I’m not skipping. And I know that’s not what emancipation means, I just didn’t think _he_ would,” he explains with a nod in the direction Hal went. “But I’m not in public school, so I only have to go at certain times, on different days. And then I do the rest of my coursework from home.”

“Which is... here?” Bruce inquires politely.

The kid answers with a half-shrug. “For now. I _am_ emancipated, that wasn't a lie. And I could afford to live on my own with what my grandparents left me. Maybe not in this neighborhood, but..." he shrugs again. 

“I mean, I think I’d want a roommate anyway, though.”

Bruce feels a prickle of amusement. “And living with Oliver is like… having a roommate?” he asks. 

“Aside from the fact that he won’t _let_ me pay rent. Except to help with the groceries. And he has really horrible, old-person taste in music.” He adds the last comment in a slightly louder voice, obviously not caring at all if Oliver hears.

Bruce does let his mouth quirk upward at that. “I understand terrible music taste is a common part of the roommate experience."

Hal follows Oliver’s voice into a large living room off the front hall. The Green Arrow is just standing up when he enters, movement a little stiff from the stab wound Bruce warned him about. They clasp hands, and when Ollie pulls him in for a one-armed hug, Hal tries to have care for the other man’s injury.

“So sorry about Coast City, man,” he says solemnly. 

“I don’t really want to talk about it. Not yet.”

“I know. But I had to say it. You wouldn’t have forgiven me otherwise.” He lets go. 

“Seriously, though, welcome back to planet Earth!” he continues with a smile, in a voice much nearer his normal, boisterous tone. “Want a beer? Or a burger? You always say you miss the food most!”

At the mention of burgers, Hal’s stomach growls, reminding him that all he has eaten in the last - well, who knows how long in Earth time - is the power bar Bruce pushed on him earlier. 

“Actually... that sounds amazing.”

The kitchen is at the back of the house, taking up the full width of the townhome. Oliver makes a beeline for a cabinet drawer full of restaurant menus. He flips through them quickly, bombarding Hal for all his favorites, making up hypothetical take-out orders for each. Even once he’s called in an order, he doesn’t stop there. After hangs up with the second place, Hal throws Bruce a helpless look through the bar cut-out to the living room. Bruce just smirks at him, and goes back to flipping through the papers on the coffee table. 

At one point, the kid stomps up and back down the stairs. He swipes a set of keys off their hook in the front room and announces, “Ollie, I’m going to Eddie’s!”

“Okay, but call to let him know first! And let me know when you’re headed back so I know when to send out the search party!” he responds, not missing a beat. 

As the door slams behind the teen, Hal jokes, “Look at you, with the parenting.”

“Ah, he’s a good kid.” Oliver brushes off the comment to return to his quest. “Bruce, you want anything?”

Bruce glances up, lips pursed. “Well,” he demurs, and Hal narrows his eyes in suspicion. “I was thinking about going to check in somewhere. The jet won’t be able to be refueled until tomorrow, and-”

Oliver cuts him off. “Uh-uh, none of that. You’ll help us eat this food, and then you’re going to tell me your thoughts.”

“My thoughts? You may have to be a little more specific.”

“On the case. Don’t think I didn’t notice you not-so-subtly perusing my case file.”

"Don't tell me someone gave you a badge," Hal interjects, in mock horror. 

"Nah, just a license," Ollie grins. "I'm a regular old 'private dick'!"

In the end, Oliver calls in for deliveries of chinese, pizza, and, yes, even take-out from a local burger place, ordering what Hal’s sure is _way_ too much food. When he points that out, Oliver just shrugs, saying, “Whatever, if we don’t eat it, the kid is sure to finish at some point.” 

Which - fair; Hal remembers being a teenager once. 

In the brief lull, Hal asks, “Actually, would it be cool if I bummed a shower while we wait for the food to get here?” 

At Ollie’s okay, he heads back to the car to get his brand-new duffel bag full of stuff. Oliver helps him find the bathroom upstairs, then leaves him be. Hal strips, stepping gratefully into the hot spray. 

He turns his face up into the water, letting it wash away any remaining particles of soot, sand... and salt.

Downstairs, Oliver Queen punches Bruce in the arm, as the shower starts somewhere above them.

“What the fuck!” he hisses. “I get _one_ text. One. ‘Jordan and I will be there in thirty,’ it says. Of course, it has to be some kind of prank - some boneheaded joke, right?- the only Jordan I know is somewhere in space. But then I’m like, no, of-fucking-‘course not, B doesn’t _joke._ He’s just an _asshole!_

“Seriously, you couldn’t be bothered to let me know he was back before then?! How long did you even-! Oh, no way. Is _that_ what that was about, last night?”

“This morning,” Bruce corrects, mostly out of habit. “And I did try to call you, but you were, and I quote, ‘high as a kite’.”

“What the fuck ever. That was an Eddie quote, not me. And he was only - _maybe!_ \- like, 15% right.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. “Could you have gotten yourself to the Watchtower?” 

Oliver’s silence is answer enough.

He continues wearily. “I didn’t think so. I was aiming to warn him before he made it to Earth. Diana wasn’t available. You weren’t available. I made do.”

“You didn’t call Dinah?”

Bruce hesitates. “I didn’t have her number. Also, I believe she’s busy with something for Oracle…” he trails off when Oliver thrusts out his hand. 

“Phone. Now,” he demands. 

Reluctantly, Bruce unlocks his Wayne Tech device and hands it over. Oliver aggressively punches on the keyboard for a few moments, then hands it back. 

Bruce glances at the screen before he puts it away. It’s open to a new text conversation, two messages already sent.

_“Dinah, this is Bruce’s phone. Said he didn’t have your number, so I’m giving it to him. -Ollie”_ the first one reads.

_“Also, Hal’s back. Let you know when I know more.”_

Oliver sighs, like he is the long-suffering friend in this relationship, which Bruce finds ironic. “Alright, alright. So, how did that conversation go?”

Bruce winces. Visibly. 

“That good, huh?”

He’s not sure, at first, how to respond. Then, he realizes he has one hand in his trousers’ pocket, idly fiddling with the contents. Slowly, he withdraws the ring. He places it, symbol up, on the bar.

Oliver exhales a quiet _“Whoah,”_ at the sight.

Bruce’s smile, even tight and devoid of joy, looks out of place on his face. “I’m just glad we’re all still alive,” he says.

“You’re - you’re joking,” Oliver says. But he doesn’t sound so sure.

After a moment, Bruce returns the Lantern’s ring to his pocket. Oliver literally gives a shake, trying to rid himself of the heavy atmosphere. 

“So. Where’d you find the kid?” Bruce asks, breaking the silence.

Oliver smiles, just a little, at the question. He sounds exasperated, but also fond, when he answers. “He found me, actually. Three nights in a row, I lined up a shot only to have an arrow appear in the target before I could release. Little shit was tailing me.” 

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “So you took him home?” he prompts. Because it’s Ollie, he makes a conscious effort not to sound like he’s passing judgement. 

But Oliver just huffs a laugh, shaking his head. 

“You’re one to talk. Nah, I figured he was a runaway at first. Was gonna march him straight back to his parents. Turns out though, he’s emancipated, so, legally, he had every right to be living on his own. 

“Kid has some kind of a trust fund, but he was living out of a roach motel on the Northside. Even though he had the money, the respectable places wouldn’t look at him twice,” he explains. "Honestly, don't know where we would have gone from there if he hadn't just up and ID'd me.

"Which, okay, so maybe my identity is not quite the secret at once was - not like yours is. But it's still not something you can just _look up..."_ He gives a helpless shrug.

"Hrm. Does he also know…"

“No, that cat's still in the bag. He doesn’t know about… any others."

Coming down the stairs, Hal catches the tail end of the conversation.

"Who doesn't know what?" he asks. Bruce, having heard the creak of the second to last stair, doesn’t start even though he’s facing away.

"Connor. He knows the Green Arrow’s identity - but only Arrow’s.”

“That the kid’s name? I didn’t catch it.”

"Yeah, so no flying. Or green glowing things,” Oliver admonishes. Too casually, he continues with a nod at Hal’s bare hand. “Speaking of, where's your ring? You didn't leave it upstairs, did you?"

With an effort of will, Bruce keeps his face pointedly blank.

Hal's eyes flicker to Bruce, like he can’t help it.

"No. It's depleted,” he answers, gruff. 

"What, like forever?"

"Until I can get a recharge from a lantern battery. And since I'm not exactly anxious to ask Gardner to borrow his…" he trails off. Even Oliver doesn’t seem to know where to go from there. 

Bruce clears his throat. "So, Queen. How did you manage to get yourself stabbed?"

Hal shoots him a look, grateful for the change of subject. Ollie groans. 

"Hang on, I may need a drink for this. Want one? Hal?" 

Bruce declines the offer, but Hal does not. Oliver grabs a pair of beers from the fridge, popping their caps and handing one over. 

Hal listens, drinking his beer as Oliver explains how his latest off-the-books case has run smack into his official one. He's downed the whole bottle by the time the food comes, and upends the second to wash down his first slice of pizza. By then, he's starting to feel the buzz kicking in - and starting to just plain _feel._ Not sure he’s ready to handle that, he sips on the third as he eats his way steadily through half of a large supreme and a carton of broccoli beef.

Occasionally, he feels somebody's gaze come to rest on him. When he looks up, he's always too late to catch them in the act.

 _Of course, that rules out Ollie. He never could do subtle,_ he thinks to himself.

He begins to lose time in fits and starts as he lets the conversation wash over him.

(Now he tunes in, Oliver saying: "Uh, thanks B, but I don't think Batman flying around Star is exactly what I need right now."

"It wasn't Batman's services I was offering.")

(Now there's a burger in front of him, and he picks it up though he's already stuffed to the gills. He's thinking of that last burger place he saw - thinking of all the burger joints and chain restaurants and mom-and-pop diners ground to dust; the coloring-book menus that will never be handed out, and the children who will never receive them.)

(Now Oliver's jumping on Bruce's offer, to help work the case using strictly his daylight-appropriate detective skills. "If you're serious, I wouldn't mind more surveillance on Mai Zhoa's Shoestore - I'm sure it's a front, not sure for what yet.")

(Now he’s peeling the label off his beer bottle, the green and gold design keeping mostly together as it comes free.)

(Now Bruce is getting ready to head out; "I'll just have a look around - don't worry, I'll be sure not to take any knives in the gut."

"Ha-very-ha.")

Bruce gives Hal a searching look before he goes. Hal could try to put up a front, but he's not sure even sure what emotion he should be trying to convey - or what Bruce would see anyway.

When the door closes behind him, Hal is left with mixed feelings. There's the relief, for one. He might not be able to hide things from Oliver any better than Bruce, but Ollie, at least, will pretend not to see. 

There's also the unexpected bite of something nameless, not quite abandonment, or dread, but the feeling of being an air balloon untethered in bad weather. He shoves the feeling down and away. Instead, he shoots a smile at Ollie.

("And you thought it was too much food," the archer crows, smug.

"Yeah yeah. So, catch me up. What have I missed… besides the obvious.")

And it's true that Oliver has always been a good storyteller. He makes Hal groan and shake his head and laugh in equal measure - though his smile never does reach his eyes. He tells Hal how the investigation agency started, and about the long-overdue settlement that helped him get back on his feet. He flips easily between Green Arrow’s adventures and Oliver Queen's, paints caricatures of those he's worked with - from C.I.A. to C.P.S. 

(There’s a moment where Hal just about stops breathing. The kitchen is cleaned up and they've shifted to the living room, and he has the sudden realization: when Bruce went, he must have taken the ring with him. He smothers the instinctive flash of panic. _Bruce will bring it back,_ he reminds himself, _and it can’t be much safer than in Batman’s possession._

He pulls air into his lungs. _Besides,_ he thinks, _it's powerless right now anyway.)_

Any time Oliver pauses, Hal makes a noise of sympathy, or appreciation, or asks a follow-up that prompts him to continue. He tries to focus on Oliver's words, on letting the anecdotes wear away at the chunk of ice encasing his heart, numbing his chest. Many of the stories feature Dinah - even when they're "off again", Ollie has always revolved around her like the sun. 

(“Hang on. What war is that?” he asks, when Oliver drops a current events reference that goes right over his head. 

“Oh, right. You wouldn’t know about that, pretty recent development.”)

As they grow more recent, his tales begin to include Connor more; Oliver mostly refers to him, fondly, as ‘the kid’. Hal wonders idly if Dinah has met ‘the kid’ yet, and what she thinks about him. She probably made a better impression than Hal did, he thinks with amusement.

At some point, he can’t help but make the connection. Not for the first time, the conversation has veered suddenly in a new direction - just before, he is sure, Oliver was going to mention Superman. 

“Okay, what is _up_ with that?” he asks. 

“With what?” Oliver asks. He sounds convincingly oblivious. 

“With - you and Bruce. And Clark. You haven’t mentioned Superman once, and when Bruce had to, he had this look like…”

“What, constipated?” Oliver jokes. “Cause I hate to break it to you, but I think that’s just his face.”

Hal shakes his head. “More like someone ran over his dog,” he mutters.

“Well, you’d have to ask Bruce about that one,” Oliver offers, and Hal - he shakes his head, and he lets it go. 

Bruce lets himself back into Oliver's house with the key he snagged on the way out. It's after dark, but not so late that the streets have emptied. Something - possibly the ring, which had uncharacteristically slipped his mind until he got several blocks away from the brownstone, just far enough to decide against turning back - began tugging him in that direction not long after the sun set. Eventually, he stopped trying to resist.

He finds Oliver in the kitchen, with a drinking glass full of clear liquid in one hand and his phone in the other. The townhome is quiet, dark aside for the spotlights over the stove.

"Jordan?" he asks. 

"Passed out on the couch playing video games with the kid." Ollie’s mouth twitches. "Walked in on Connor covering him with a blanket. Real 'Hallmark' moment."

Bruce grunts, glancing into the darkened living room. Sure enough, he can make out a vague lump on the sectional. Unasked, Oliver gets out another glass and fills it with water from the fridge. 

"So. Find out anything interesting after you ran off?" he asks. 

Bruce narrows his eyes at the phrasing, but, for once, Oliver’s face reveals nothing. Ollie simply takes a sip of water from his glass. After a second, Bruce does the same.

“What, you didn’t solve my case for me?”

If they were in Gotham, Bruce would be in the cave right now, adding notes to his report from any of the state-of-the-art consoles. Remembering the hand-scrawled notes on hardcopy of Oliver's 'casefile,' he has to suppress a grimace. 

"We're going to need more paper,” he says. Rather than respond, Oliver just puts down his glass and nods.

They migrate to the study, behind a formerly closed door off the foyer, at the foot of the stairs. It's a long room, more narrow than the living room, with a double-wide window over the desk in the front wall. Bruce is relieved to at least see a computer (even if the hardware seems obsolete in comparison to what he's used to), in addition to a filing cabinet, drafting table, some book cases, and a sturdy-looking futon. 

Hours pass as they pour over the data together. Bruce adds his observations, helping map out connections between people, places, and business interests, adding notes to follow-up where the various money trails go to ground. They're arguing the same point for the third time when Oliver calls halt with a yawn.

"You're not gonna convince me about Xi's involvement without more evidence - which even you can't make appear from thin air - and I won't convince you. It's late, time to hit the sack."

Ollie jerks his chin. "The futon's all yours. May not be a four-poster, but it's comfortable as sin - I slept on it often enough to know. Or, if you’re determined to spend that fortune of yours, you can go check in to the Ritz I suppose.”

Bruce hesitates. He has nothing against the futon - he’s slept on worse - but he probably _should_ go check in to a hotel rather than impose. Except, unlike Hal, he didn't get the chance to shower while they were waiting for food. And, even though the Batsuit kept much more of Coast City's soot and grime off of him than Hal's civies, he desperately wants one. 

Oliver is waiting patiently for him to say something. 

“About Hal…” Bruce begins. “I don’t… I didn’t know what to do,” he finally admits. 

He gets a searching look return. Ollie snorts, then shakes his head. “No, Bruce. I think you did. 

“He’s welcome here, if he wants to stay, and for as long as he wants - and so are you. Though, I suspect you’ll want to head back to Gotham in the morning?” 

At Bruce’s nod, Ollie surprises him with a tired smile and a quiet, “That city has never deserved you.” He clears his throat. More normally, he continues, “I saw Hal had a bag, you need anything?"

Bruce gives in. "Just a shower," he answers.

"Okay, cool. Kit's in the bathroom at the top of the stairs. I'd say let me know if you need anything, but please don't. I'm about to take something a little stronger than aspirin, and I _will_ be grumpy if you wake me before I'm ready," he warns, only half-joking. 

Bruce follows him out of the study. "And I would know when that is because…?" 

Ollie grunts softly as he starts up the stairs. He flaps his hand in Bruce's general direction. "I don't know. Ask the kid?" 

Bruce shakes his head as he goes to the car to get his go-bag. Much smaller than the duffel he arranged for Hal, it contains the bare minimum - toothbrush and toothpaste, a clean pair of underwear, and his mini-comp. 

As he climbs into the - blessedly hot - shower, he suddenly realizes: he never did have to put on his 'dealing with Oliver' hat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if you're a big Connor Hawke fan and he seems totally OOC. The whole 'Californian monastery' thing in his 90s backstory always weirded me out, so I just kinda... wiped that away. Instead, I took a bit of inspiration from the Arrowverse when Moira Queen does that whole 'pay off the baby-mama' thing and set him up with a trust fund. Then, 'cause Sandra "Moonday" Hawke was useless as a parental figure, in this AU he somehow manages to get himself emancipated, throws a peace-sign to his mom on the way out the door, and runs off to find Ollie.


	6. Interlude II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick aside from the girls' POV, because there just had to be a Birds of Prey cameo.

Dinah Laurel Lance - known to some as Black Canary - trudges up the jet bridge with her carry-on over one shoulder. Pulling her leather jacket tighter around her to ward off the chill, she suppresses a yawn. Despite the midnight departure, complimentary alcohol, and her post-mission exhaustion, she spent most of the flight awake. The feeling of being trapped with so many people - so many _strangers_ \- in a confined space always leaves her too tense to doze. Only, somewhere around the 26-hour mark of being awake, she basically passed out.

Thankfully, they’re finally disembarking at Gotham International. She takes turns stretching kinks out of various limbs as she emerges into the relative warmth of the airport. The twelve-hour flight direct from Tel Aviv landed hours before the local sunrise; aside from her fellow passengers and a bare handful of workers, the terminal is empty.

She follows the stream of people headed for customs, digging in the side pocket of her pack as she walks. Too tired for subtlety, she flashes her Justice League Reserve ID at the checkpoint. The uniformed customs officer gives her a once-over, as if trying to decide who exactly she is to the League, before he waves her through.

 _(It’s a good thing I had that picture retaken,_ she thinks with a glance at the ID as she tucks it away. Her dyed-blonde hair may be a few inches longer now than it is in her ID photo, but at least she’s recognizable. The old picture, taken when she still wore the dark, choppy pixie cut under Black Canary’s wig, might have given him pause.)

Her fellow travelers hardly react to her passage, happy to have one less person ahead of them in line. Beyond the glass, Dinah steps to the side, out of the flow of half-awake humanity on their way to baggage claim. With a wince for strained muscles, she drops her bag from her shoulder to the floor, and fishes a cell phone from the pocket of her jeans.

Flipping it open, she sighs in relief when it powers on; it wouldn't be the first time she forgot to charge the damn thing. As soon as the screen lights up, she presses and holds the only speed-dial she has programmed.

The line ringing, she leans over to fish her boarding pass from her bag.

“Oracle,” the digitally modified voice answers.

"O! Babe," she says as soon as the line clicks open. "I couldn't help but notice my ticket ends, here in Gotham. You book me back to Seattle on a budget airline or something? Where do I go to pick up my reservation?"

The hesitation is miniscule. In the silence, Dinah’s phone buzzes by her ear, several messages coming in now that she again has service.

"You're not headed back to Seattle just yet, Canary. I've booked you a hotel in the Heights for a few nights. There should be a driver waiting for you at Arrivals."

Dinah frowns in confusion. "...Is this you trying to tell me you're finally ready to take me up on that blind date offer? Because I'm pretty sure we agreed to no back-to-backs after that mess of a job in Bialya."

"Not exactly. And it's not really a job. A... mutual friend of ours has just resurfaced, and I need to keep you on hand for a bit."

"We have mutual friends?"

Despite the digital modifier, she can almost hear the eyeroll. "I may not exactly be part of the club, but I know the roster,” Oracle responds. “I won’t name names on this line, but this friend's rather a fan of the color green. You could say he’s… a sort of sci-fi character."

"Huh?"

The sigh comes through the modulator as static. "I'm guessing you didn't get much sleep on the plane, as usual? Go, check into your hotel, and get some rest. Then call me when you're up - I should have something more for you then."

She hangs up while Dinah's still processing. At the mention of his signature color, Dinah’s thoughts strayed immediately to Oliver - but, of course, that can’t be who Oracle means. Lowering her phone from her ear, Dinah shakes off thoughts of her ex- as the rest of O’s words penetrate.

Even as she's thinking, _It can't be,_ her eyes begin skimming the message on the phone’s screen. Only then does she see the warning Ollie sent her.

_Oh God. Hal._

Barbara Gordon, known to a rare few as Oracle, sits back in her chair. The clock tower’s energy-efficient insulation and her own tendency to not crank the heat up when she can add more layers means her apartment is cool, but not cold. She’s practically cozy, a knit sweater over her light cotton pajamas. Her auburn hair is pulled back into a knot to get it out of the way of her headset, hairstick holding all but a few stray locks in place.

She half-believes Canary will call her straight back, demanding answers. But, since she can’t explain the source of her information without revealing the strength of her ties to Batman, she’d rather just avoid that conversation.

(It's not that she doesn't trust Dinah Lance, exactly - just that secrets get harder to keep the more people who know them. So far, she can count on one hand those who know her dual identity... and she'd like to keep it that way.)

From the way the line stays silent, at least, it looks like Dinah is going to let her.

Five A.M. is definitely earlier that she would like to be up, but she’d set her alarm so as to be awake when Dinah landed. As much as Babs would like to go straight back to bed now that she has heard from the other woman, she knows it’s too late now to turn her brain back off. Instead, she rolls her chair into the kitchen and starts the coffee maker. As it brews, she cradles her head in one hand and reflects.

After the conversation with Bruce the day before, she hadn't even hesitated to route Dinah's extraction straight back to Gotham. Keeping the Back Canary - a founding member of the League and Hal's long-time friend - close to a zeta tube that can get her into space quickly just seemed… prudent. Of course, within an hour of doing so she had an update from Bruce, saying they'd made it out of the ruins of Coast City, but nothing else.

When Dinah was finally safe, and on her way home, Babs threw herself into internet research as a distraction from her unease. Eventually, she gave in and remotely accessed the Batplane's tracker. Finding it in Star City surprised her, but she realized quickly it shouldn’t have.

Thankfully, Babs knew the right source to contact when Bruce was being especially uncommunicative. A call to Alfred confirmed he did not expect Bruce back that night, and, eventually, she'd been able to let it rest. If only her brain had let _her_ do the same.

The coffee maker sputters out a few last drops, and Babs fills her usual mug with the dark brew. A splash of cream, which disappears before blooming to the surface, a quick swirl with a teaspoon until it's a uniform caramel-color, then add the travel lid, and she is ready to get to work.

Rolling back to her console, she notices the unopened email icon on her desktop immediately. It's from Bruce, the time stamp just a few hours before. Her brow furrows; three A.M. in Gotham means just around midnight in Star - although, the late hour hardly means much to a Bat.

She opens the message. It's… definitely not what she was expecting. A request for a background check wouldn’t be all that odd, even if Bruce usually prefers to do them himself. Rather, it’s that the subject is not someone she has ever heard of, much less can connect with their current situation.

Besides, it’s for a kid. _"Connor Hawke, age 15-18,"_ she reads, puzzled. _"Not urgent."_

She rolls her eyes at the addendum. Urgent or not, now she's curious.


	7. Rest Assured

Hal surges awake in the early hours of morning. It's a panic reaction; cold sweat, spiked pulse, the whole nine yards. But, if there’s a reason for the feeling, he couldn’t say what it is.

Well. He could make an educated guess.

Rolling over onto his back, his jeans twist and dig awkwardly into his hip, reminding him he fell asleep fully dressed. He tiredly shucks them off, dumping them in a pile on the floor beside the sofa. At some point he acquired a blanket; he vaguely remembers waking to voices in the hall and finding it there. At the time, he’d heard the intonation and pitch of a voice too low to be Ollie’s, and relaxed. The half-conscious state lasted long enough to reassure him that Bruce wasn’t going to up and pull a disappearing act, and then he drifted off.

Now, somehow too tired to sleep, Hal blinks up at the ceiling. The yellow light of a streetlamp is sneaking through the window just enough to illuminate the texture on the ceiling, the bits of popcorn casting subtle shadows. He finds himself searching for patterns in the chaos; the exercise can’t be any more pointless than counting sheep.

He can’t say how it happens, but his brain picks out a half-dozen flecks that almost, but not quite, match his nebulous recollection of a star map. He snorts softly when places it, recognizing the pattern of a system seen from the perspective of Oa, rather than Earth. Granted, the extent of his Earth-based astronomical knowledge is pointing out Orion’s belt in the winter, so that shouldn’t really be surprising. 

(And, sure, he remembers having plastic glow stars pasted to his bedroom ceiling, same as every other kid. But when Hal looked to the sky, he was searching for wings, and other flying things - not cold and distant flecks of light.)

He closes his eyes for a moment, longer than a blink but not by much. Still, when he opens them, for a heartbeat he is unsettled by a feeling of claustrophobia. 

(His subconscious always takes time to adjust to having four walls around him, a roof above his head and floor below, after so long in space. His time away from Earth might not be spent entirely in the void - between sector patrol and Oa, he makes plenty of trips planet-side - but there is a _lot_ of space between the stars.)

The feeling of even the most spacious rooms being too confining is something he deals with every time he comes home. And in the fact that he’s _not_ home - not in _his_ home - only heightens it. 

His apartment may not have been much, but it was _his_. He knew every corner, every shadow; how to avoid stubbing any toes and where to find his things. His collection of worn paper backs; the shot glasses that seemed the perfect souvenir when on deployment in his twenties. The old rug with the red wine stain, which Carol always insisted was ‘your own damn fault, Hal,’ despite it being _her_ glass. The few photos he bothered to hang on to, in cheap frames, or stuck to the fridge and bulletin board. (Even the ones from his childhood are probably gone, he realizes. He’s pretty sure Jim ended up with the old family albums, after Mom died - and he doubts, whatever reason the family had for not being in the city, that they took the old photos along.) Hell, even his ID, his passport - every tax document he’d ever kept, for lack of a better idea of what to do with them. 

Hal’s stomach twists with guilt when he realizes what he’s doing - mourning his lost _things,_ as if they weren’t infinitely more replaceable than all the lost _lives._

_People always did say you were a jackass, Jordan._

He blinks and the flecks on the ceiling are just flecks; he’s lost the pattern for the chaos. 

He takes it as a sign, a bold fucking ‘Note to self: you can’t get sleep if you don’t _close your eyes_.’ 

The last thing he does before he settles is to reach for the end of the couch, where his jacket is thrown over the rm. He drapes it across his chest when he lies back, telling himself it’s only to fight the chill given off by the window overhead.

It’s an unfortunately frequent occurrence that, when Batman takes off the cape and cowl, nightmares find Bruce Wayne in his sleep. They're not always what you might expect; rarely is he fighting costumed criminals, metas, or even invading aliens. His worst nightmares involve none of these. They come in two distinct flavors.

In the first, he is forced to watch, helplessly, as he transforms into the very thing he swore to fight. Those are unpleasant, and disconcerting, and Bruce sometimes wonders how he hasn't yet ground his teeth to dust when he wakes, jaw clenched and aching. 

And yet, they are easier to shake off than the latter. Those are the kind where, no matter how hard he tries, he is always going to be _too late._

That night it was one of the second.

It began with a familiar scene: the barren Ethiopian valley, the empty road, the warehouse - all painted with the hazy, impressionist quality of dreams. The sharpness of the explosion, by contrast, is like a knife to the gut. 

As are the bodies in the dust. Falling to his knees, clutching his son’s lifeless body: that comes straight from his memories. Only, instead of the bright African sun over head, there is only darkness. Darkness… and a figure.

With the inexplicable, fluid logic of dreams, a second Jason stands over them, like an angel of judgement. _Why didn't you save us,_ he seems to demand. _Why didn't you save_ them?

The question is repeated by the whispers of a million voices, more felt that heard. Bruce is suddenly suffused with the knowledge that the rubble extends infinitely in all directions. It’s not the remains of a single warehouse, but a whole city, a whole civilization's worth of ruins… and remains.

The dead are not idle, however. Everywhere, they struggle to free themselves from the wreckage of the broken city. But the wreckage fights back.

Around him the rubble forms into spires, massive conglomerates of twisted metal and broken concrete, up-ended vehicles and slabs of stone. Even the debris under him is not exempt; it swallows Jason’s body despite his best efforts as it thrusts upward. 

Rather than being interred himself, Bruce is carried skyward by the growing tower. 

The other Jason rises as well, the silhouette too tall, too adult to be his son, who will never have the chance to grow into his height. Though, perhaps it is all in the perspective; floating above Bruce, his feet do not touch the rubble. Instead, he hovers, not unlike a Green Lantern exercising his will. 

The second explosion is soundless, a flash of yellow light, flaring instantly in all directions. When it is over, the ruins are gone, and all that is left is darkness. 

Bruce wakes around dawn, blinking tiredly at the ceiling. His internal cock, still set for Gotham, insists that it’s late morning, passed time to be awake. Shaking off the feeling of a dream he can’t quite remember, he levers himself up and folds the futon back into place. 

His charcoal slacks from the day before are folded neatly over the desk chair at the front of the room, faint contour of a lump in one pocket. Dressing quickly, he puts on yesterday’s clothes and goes in search of coffee. 

As he passes the living room, he resists the urge to pull the ring out to check on it - but he does pat his pocket to make sure it’s still in place. He glances into the living room as he passes; morning light is starting to slip between the blinds, striping the floor and the half of the couch where a woven blanket covers Hal’s legs. The green lantern appears to still be sleeping.

The townhome is quiet around them as Bruce pads into the kitchen. Not silent, or empty, but filled with the low, peaceful hum of life. The chattering of birds filters softly through the kitchen window overlooking the shotgun-style backyard; the distant purr of traffic is audible only when he thinks about it. A clock ticks quietly in the hall, and the electric hum of appliances fills the gaps between the seconds. From the couch, Hal's soft, even breathing is followed by the rustle of fabric when he shifts in his sleep. 

The coffee maker is on the counter between fridge and stove, right where Bruce remembers spotting it the day before. The coffee itself takes a little longer to locate, on a cabinet shelf between mismatched wine glasses. He heaps grounds into the filter basket, hoping the result will be somewhat drinkable. 

The coffee maker adds that distinct sputtering sound to the hush while it percolates, and just the aroma itself helps kick-start his brain. When the first eight or so ounces are done brewing, he removes the carafe to pour it into a souvenir mug he found among the spices. 

Then he bites the bullet, opening his mini-comp to deal with the fallout from his disappearing act the day before.

Actually, when he sees Oracle’s encrypted response, he puts off donning his CEO hat off for a few more minutes, reading through that info first. It contains pretty much exactly what he'd expected. After a few moments musing - and a long draught of the coffee, just cool enough to drink - he accesses a backdoor to the WE system that routes him to his own email.

The stairs creak with teenaged footsteps when he’s about to start on his second cup. Connor shuffles into the kitchen, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the smell of coffee in the air. Bruce hides a smile, thinking of Tim and how much different _his_ reaction would have been; it looks like there’s at least one fight Ollie won’t have to be having with his… protege. 

The teen mumbles something that might be “Good morning” on his way to the fridge. Admittedly, it doesn’t sound much like any language Bruce knows, so he’s extrapolating. 

“Good morning.”

After a moment of rummaging, he emerges with a cup of yogurt in one hand. He blinks at Bruce, squints, and then pulls out another. Bruce interprets the inquiring noise he makes as a question, and accepts the offering. Connor’s half-awake state doesn’t seem to affect his coordination, as he tosses Bruce the yogurt underhanded. After bumping the fridge door closed with his hip, the kid pulls two spoons out of a silverware drawer (the first one he opens, miraculously). He leaves one for Bruce, before disappearing back up the stairs.

As he’s finishing his second coffee, Bruce shuts the computer. He decides against going for the third, starting on the yogurt instead as he considers. 

It’s 8am. His contact at the airfield assures him the jet will be fueled up by nine, but even then, with the three hour time difference, the earliest he can get back to Gotham will be mid-afternoon. Still, plenty of time to clean up the mess at WE… assuming he leaves in the next half-hour. 

The idea makes him vaguely uncomfortable, sneaking out like a thief while everyone - except, perhaps, the kid - is sleeping. But... Hal will be fine here, he’s confident. Oliver is a lot of things - reckless and occasionally irresponsible, for example - but of the two of them, he is not the one more likely to say the exact wrong thing.

And he certainly made his opinion of being woken up clear. 

Bruce washes his dishes in the sink while he considers. Tossing the yogurt container, he goes to pack his few things. He texts Alfred with an update before heading up the stairs to brush his teeth and wash his face. 

There’s only one thing left to figure out: what does he do with the Green Lantern's ring?

He palms it and sighs. If he leaves it on the coffee table, Hal will see it as soon as he wakes. But, perhaps, it would be better not to leave it out in plain sight. It might not be an instant giveaway, as conspicuous as the batsuit, but still…

He rounds the bottom of the stairs, and glances into the living room with a frown. Hal's sleeping form is missing from the couch. 

Realizing he hears movement from the kitchen, Bruce follows his ears. Hal is up, a piece of cold pizza in one hand, lifting the coffee carafe with the other. He looks surprisingly alert, although the lighting in the kitchen only serves to highlight the dark circles under his eyes. 

“Morning,” he grunts. “Grab me that mug, will you?” He gestures - with his pizza hand, the one that also wears the wrist brace - to the drying rack where Bruce left his mug after washing it out. Of course, the logical thing to do would be for Hal to put something down - either the pizza, or the carafe. Instead, Bruce complies, flipping the mug and holding it out. 

“Thanks.” He pours the rest of the coffee into the mug, then slides the carafe back into place. “Were you done? Cause I’d make more, but I have no idea where to find the coffee.”

“That's not necessary.”

Hal raises the mug to his lips, taking a cautious sip to check the temperature. His eyes flicker to Bruce's bag. 

"Time for us to split?" he asks. 

Bruce hesitates as the pronoun registers.

"I need to get back to Gotham,” he says. "I can take you-" he stops himself before he can say 'somewhere', realizing there are not a lot of places he would be willing to just... drop Hal off on his own. "I have room for a passenger, of course. Or- well, I don't know what he told you, but Oliver assured me you are welcome here, if you want to stay." 

Hal considers, but only for a moment before shaking his head. Bruce hides his chagrin. “If you're alright with a tagalong, Gotham will at least get me on the same coast as New York,” he explains.

_Where Gardner can be found, assuming he's on Earth,_ Bruce realizes. It's the closest he's come to mentioning the ring since Bruce took it off his finger the day before.

Hal continues. "Besides, I think Ollie's got his hands a little full right now,” he murmurs. “Hey, Kidarrow.”

The last is aimed at the hall, where Connor has re-emerged. “Don’t call me kid,” he scowls. 

“Would you prefer Arrowtot? Lil’ archer? Ohh, Fletch?"

"... What?" 

"You know, 'cause arrows, with the feathers... plus, you're like, a baby, so a fledgling. And, huh, I'm just realizing, those words are not at all spelled the same. Why is that?"

The look the teen shoots him is so close to the patented 'Bruce' look that Hal blinks. "I don't think I should have to take this from the guy with his fly open," Conor retorts, crossing to the sink with his spoon. Hal glances down. 

"Hunh. I thought that was gonna be a made-you-look kind of thing," he says, setting down his coffee momentarily to zip up his jeans with his good hand. 

Connor smirks. He's shooting Hal's pizza a speculative look, which quickly morphs into horror when Hal finishes the slice of pepperoni and washes it down with a long swig of coffee. Internally, Bruce sympathizes. Still, Connor digs his own slice out of the fridge and rounds the bar to head for the couch. 

Hal turns back to Bruce. “How long is the flight, anyway? I think teenage-dom went viral while I was gone, and I caught it from the kid. So I don’t want to get hangry at you at 30,000 feet.”

“Pretty sure your body needs calories to function at any age, Jordan.”

“Yeah but like, until yesterday, I didn’t feel like I had a black hole for a stomach,” he says. 

Bruce hides a frown. It’s not the first time he’s wondered whether Hal really does lose weight every time he’s off planet, or if it's just his imagination. 

“Earth to Bruce? I didn’t think it was _that_ deep a question.”

Suddenly, Bruce realizes he’s been woolgathering. “What.”

“Yeah, um. I said, do we need to pack snacks? I’m assuming the flight’s somewhere between the one-hour mark of the Blackbird and, the - what is it? five-ish? - for a 737?” 

“If you are trying to get me to quote you her top speed, Jordan, did it never occur to you to just ask?”

Hal blinks. “Okay, someday you have to tell me how you do that. But seriously, is that a yea or nae on the snacks?” 

Bruce gives an exaggerated sigh. “If we leave for the airfield in the next twenty, we’ll have time to pick something up on the way.”

“Sweet.”

Hal never really unpacked his bag; in only a few minutes he’s ready to go. He considers waking Ollie to say goodbye, but for some reason his stomach churns at the idea, so he doesn’t. On the way out the door, Hal throws a wave toward the couch where the kid is sitting. 

“Tell your dad bye for us, and to try not to get himself stabbed next time!” he calls. Bruce, following behind, is the only one to see the way Connor gapes.

They’re loading their bags into the car when he comments, “I didn’t realize you were aware of Connor’s parentage.”

“Come on. Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

Bruce can’t hold in his snort. “Not to Ollie.”

Hal, hand on the car door, glances at Bruce over the top of the Cadillac. His eyes widen. “You’re… not serious?” 

Bruce throws him a look as he ducks into the car. Hal scrambles in as well. “You're serious. You’re fucking kidding me, right?! He really doesn’t know?”

Bruce’s silence is enough of an answer, this once.

“How could he - I mean, the hell? What, he thinks Connor's just some random kid? Which, okay, obviously I can totally see Ollie taking him in anyway, but - Jesus!”

He realizes, Oliver never _did_ claim Connor was his son. And even Hal’s crack about parenting - well, that could have been taken as just more ribbing, he supposes. Hell, he’s probably mocked _Batman_ for trying to parent the other League members. Possibly more than once. 

"Should we tell him? I feel like we should tell him, right?"

Bruce finally shakes his head. “If I thought that was our business, I would have said something to Oliver last night. As it is, I suspect Connor is just working up the nerve to tell him. Plus, I think you just lit a fire under him. He’ll say something sooner, rather than later.” 

Hal takes a long moment to process. 

_“Wow,”_ he breathes eventually, still amazed. 

When a strange, strangled noise comes from the driver’s side, Hal glances over. He notices Bruce’s shoulders are shaking. 

“Are you - are you _laughing_ at me?” Hal asks, astonished. It feels like his whole world-view is re-aligning; moments ago, he would have said the concepts of _Batman_ and _laughter_ were mutually incompatible; now he feels like he’s trying to fit a square peg into a round hole… and Houston isn’t standing by to help.

“No. I’m… appreciating the irony,” comes Bruce’s response. Charaterisitally, he manages to get his voice totally under control before he speaks. 

“What irony?” 

Bruce shakes his head. Stopped at a red light, he throws Hal a small grin. It’s not even a smirk, but a real, actual smile. 

(Hal doesn’t know it, but his expression is not all that different from the way Connor’s looked, as they were leaving.)

Bruce explains: “In the less than 24 hours since you met, you managed to work out that Connor is Ollie’s son. And yet, somehow, you managed to _completely_ miss that Oliver has _completely_ missed this.” 

“I mean… I could be wrong about the kid?” Hal offers. He doesn’t sound the least bit convinced, though.

“You’re not.”

“So Connor is…”

“Oliver’s sixteen-year-old son, yes. I had an associate run a check for me - it seems Green Arrow’s file needs updating.”

Hal sinks back into his seat. 

“...I _knew_ he wasn’t 18.”

When Bruce a really does stop at a grocery store, Hal hides his surprise. Then he notices it's one of the ones that sells gas as well. They have a bit of a drive back to the airfield, and the Caddy probably doesn't get much better than the minimum in mileage. 

Hal has _just_ realized that - aside from the checking account which is presumably still open, but he has no way to access - he has no money, when Bruce hands him a hundred dollar bill. It saves him from the awkwardness of having to ask, but he can't quite bring himself to say ‘thanks’. 

He deflects instead, saying, "What, you just carry these around with you everywhere?" 

"My… other outfit doesn't exactly have a place for credit cards," Bruce responds, dry. 

Hal grins at the thought, picturing _Batman_ rolling up somewhere with a credit card. What would it even say: "Man, Bat", or just be solid black with no name at all? He imagines a cashier trying to navigate a 'see ID' policy, and waves his thanks as he heads inside.

The plane is a work of art, Hal thinks. He didn't appreciate it nearly enough before, distracted by his grief and the pain from the cut on his leg. Bruce is surprisingly patient as Hal paces around her, studying the mechanics. Honestly, if it contained only Earth engineering, Hal isn't sure the thing should be able to take off, much less hover. 

Obviously, Bruce didn't restrict himself to conventional principles of aerodynamics when working out the design. He knows it was Bruce; despite the lack of any identifying marks, the jet has _Bat_ written all over it if you know where to look. 

Finally, Bruce triggers the airstair to unfurl. It's a complicated mechanism, space-saving and elegant, and all the more intriguing because Hal _knows_ the cockpit canopy also retracts. 

While Hal was distracted, Bruce evidently grabbed all three bags: Hal's duffel, his smaller one, and the groceries. There's nothing left to do except follow him onto the plane. 

This time, he takes the co-pilot's seat without comment. He listens silently as Bruce requests clearance from the controller. As they take off, he stares out the window, feeling infinitesimally lighter for every thousand feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for two chapters in which not much happens... I'm still trying to get better about not writing the unnecessary bits :)  
> I realize I'm a week late posting, but life happened. Since I figure it will _continue_ to happen whether I like it or not, I'm probably gonna switch to a bi-weekly posting schedule.  
> Also, Happy BatLantern week!


	8. Be Our Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce keeps his word; Hal finally gets to fly the Batplane.

Hal doesn't know how long he has gazed at the sky, the smattering of clouds, when Bruce gets his attention. He holds out some kind of small computer viewscreen, bridging the narrow gap between their two seats. Hal takes it.

His eyebrows raise when he sees what’s on the screen. "A manual? I didn't know you were in the habit of letting others play with your toys, Spooky. Who'd you write it for, yourself?"

Bruce frowns. "No. And it’s not a toy."

Glancing at the table of contents, Hal realizes manual isn’t quite the right word. The flight controls are only a single sub-section, among slews of technical data, schematics, and fabrication notes. He can't quite contain the excited noise he makes. "Her specs? What, you just have these lying around?"

“I’m sorry. Were you under the impression I assembled a supersonic jet manually, out of spare parts? In my copious amounts of free time?” he asks, dry.

“Admittedly, I had not actually thought that part through,” Hal says. “Though, now that I think about it. You don't have an industrial-sized autoclave under the Manor? I'm disappointed, Bats.”

And maybe it’s witnessing the laughter from that morning, or maybe Hal’s getting better at identifying those scant few expressions Bruce lets show. But he definitely reads amusement under Bruce’s exasperated look, before his attention is wholly captured by the goldmine in his hand.

Bruce was enjoying the quiet in the cockpit when he abruptly realized: never before has he heard Hal Jordan with so little to say. Concerned by the out of character silence, he engages the altitude hold and brings up the first thing he thinks might interest Hal on his mini-comp: the jet’s technical specification.

(The memory of a voice chimes in his head as he holds out the mini-comp. _No, Dick, I am not going to title it ‘How To Build a Batplane’.)_

The flat, empty look goes out of Hal’s expression as he realizes what he’s holding, much to Bruce’s relief. _If it’s distraction Hal needs,_ Bruce thinks, _forty-thousand feet above sea level is as good a place to be as any._

The former Air Force pilot dives into the document eagerly. It doesn’t surprise Bruce at all when he seems to understand even the most complicated diagrams. Others may still underestimate him, but, eventually, even Batman learned better. 

Eventually, something he reads seems to give him pause. Bruce isn’t keeping an eye on him, exactly, but in the confines of the cockpit, he doesn’t miss much. 

“Uh, B? You sure there’s not a decimal missing on this load factor?” he asks.

And Bruce doesn’t even need to look to know what Hal is referring to. He debates his answer, for a brief moment, before going with the truth. “There is not.”

He can imagine Hal’s speculative look when he responds, in a neutral tone, “If you say so.” When Bruce finally does glance to his right, the Lantern’s eyes have a new glimmer - which is exactly what Bruce was afraid of. 

Still. Better than the alternative. 

Eventually, Hal closes the viewer, leaning further back in his seat. 

“So, does this mean you’ll let me fly her now? Or is there a test at the end? Do you need to see my pilot’s licence first?” he says, lightly. 

Curious, Bruce asks, “Do you still have one?”

Hal frowns. “Honestly? Not a clue. It’s a little hard to keep up with flight hours from the next galaxy over." Usually, such a comment from Hal would be facetious, but there is a shadow in his voice when he adds, "It's a little hard to keep up with anything."

Bruce does not have a Martian's ability to read minds, so he can't claim to know exactly what Hal is referring to… besides the obvious. But he knows, probably better than the Green Lantern himself, how long Hal was off-planet. And he can deduce that must have been nearly as long since Hal heard from his family, or Carol, or anyone back on Earth… because he would never have been able to avoid finding out about Coast City, otherwise. He imagines Hal wondering how much else he may have missed... and it gives Bruce pause. He suddenly realizes, if even if Hal was ready and wanted to contact someone, right that moment, he couldn't. He's always relied on his ring to interface with the 'primitive' technology of the league's satellite comms network - and (since Bruce knows exactly what possessions Hal had on him when his suit construct faded) he obviously didn't bother to bring something as archaic as a cellphone into space.

Hal sounds more like himself after a moment. "You know, with all the times I've missed tax season, I don't know how the IRS hasn't come after me yet," he jokes. 

Bruce, mental wheels turning, replies off-hand: "I suspect that would be down to the same reason the Green Arrow still possesses a somewhat-secret identity."

The silence speaks loudly, echoing with Hal's confusion. It occurs to Bruce only after the fact that the statement might come off as cryptic; after all, things that seem obvious to him often _aren't_ to others. 

"Because - we have people for that," he offers, in an attempt to clarify the statement. He tilts slightly to the side to better see Jordan's expression.

"Wait, who does? The Justice League? Because as far as I know, they have a new Green Lantern these days. I'm not exactly on the roster anymore, Bats."

"Neither am I."

"... Your point being?"

Bruce turns back to focus on his console. "They're my people."

Hal snorts. "So by 'the League has people for that', what you really meant was the _Batman_ has people. Of course."

Bruce frowns. "You're the one who mentioned the League," he corrects.

Hal opens his mouth, then snaps it shut on his initial reaction. He huffs. Slouching into his seat, he sounds halfway between resigned and exasperated. "Do you do that on purpose?" 

Bruce faces straight ahead. If the corner of his mouth twitches, he's careful to make sure it's on the side Hal can't see. "I don't know what you mean," he says.

He hits one last switch on his console, then reaches across the narrow aisle to pluck the mini-comp from Hal's grasp.

"There. Don't hurt yourself."

Hal takes in the lights that have appeared on his display - the ones that inform him the pilot has requested to hand-off control. Suddenly intent, he straightens in his seat, finally shrugging into the neglected safety harness straps. They form a protective ‘X’ over his chest as he clicks the buckles together. Leaning forward, he jabs the acknowledgement. 

Thankfully, the co-pilot’s seat is in many ways a mirror of the pilot’s, so his left hand can rest easily on the shared throttles. Like most fly-by-wire controls, that leaves the stick to his (uninjured) side. 

"Don't you mean don’t hurt her?" he clarifies, settling his hands into place.

"No,” Bruce replies.

In the end, Hal spends less time engaged in flashy aerobatics than Bruce expected. Not that he gets bored of flying; Bruce doubts that could ever happen. But after only a bit of fooling around - enough to thoroughly test out the stress ratings he had previously questioned - he settles down, happy to follow the standard, computer-recommended profile.

Bruce may have turned over control to serve as a distraction for Hal (after all, he promised the Lantern a flight, but he'd never specified a _when_ ), but it does give him the opportunity to address the whole communication issue. With Oracle's help - and some spare hardware from the cave - they’ll have something set up for Hal by the time the jet sets down in Gotham.

This time around, the quiet that settles over them is peaceful, almost companionable, so Bruce lets it be. They hardly exchange a dozen words the rest of the flight, Bruce keeping an eye on Hal as discreetly as he is able. 

The only exception is when Bruce briefly ducks out of the cockpit, forestalling the urge to take back the helm. Instead, he withdraws the bag of groceries from the compartment where he stashed them, safe from Hal’s aerial gymnastics. He half expects cookies. Or pastries, or some specific junk food that Hal craved while off-world. Instead. he finds only... fruit.

Amazingly, Hal’s stomach growls the instant Bruce offers him one of the apples.

“Oh god yes, you’re a gem,” he says. He closes his eyes, seemingly in bliss, as he munches one-handed. Bruce simply shakes his head, bemused, and goes back to watching the HUD. 

Hal finally relinquishes the pilot's control to Bruce for decent, not sure what strange Bat-protocols might be in place to keep them off the local radar. Though he knows the manor must be nearby, Hal doesn't manage to catch sight of it between the trees before Bruce slots the aircraft neatly into its subterranean hangar

This time, he carries his own baggage; Bruce thrusts the duffel at him before turning to gather up his own gear. 

Hal hops lightly from the jet into a well-lit cavern. He's honestly expecting Bruce to lead them through some kind of twisting series of tunnels after they disembark, in order to reach the main part of the cave. He's not expecting Alfred, waiting with what is, quite obviously. a modified golf cart.

The incongruity almost makes him smile.

“Master Jordan,” the older man greets him warmly as Hal crosses the smooth stone to where he waits. Shifting his bag over his left shoulder, he frees his right hand and holds it out. 

“Alfie.” Even back at the start, when Batman and the Green Lantern were at each other’s throats more often than not, Alfred Pennyworth was unfailingly polite. He always ignored the insistence that ‘just Hal’ was just fine, until Hal resorted to the nickname, half in retaliation and half to get a rise out of Bruce. Alfred just smiles at him now.

“Master Bruce.” 

B comes up behind him, loaded down with his Batsuit and pile of gear. 

Bruce grunts as he shifts his burden onto the gear rack. “Thank you for bringing the mule,” he says as he takes Hal’s bag and loads it on as well. 

“Of course,” Alfred replies, settling back into the driver’s seat. 

The cave is much the way Hal remembers it. Not that he’s spent much time there, all told. But it isn’t completely unheard-of for them to work together; either due to Hal swallowing his pride to ask for advice, or Bruce, grudgingly, recruiting him for assistance - or, at least, for the use of his ring. 

He frowns at the thought, tuning back into the conversation. 

“Was Oracle able to perform the integration remotely?” Bruce asks as they roll to a stop. 

“The hardware gave her as much trouble as ‘a blind kobold’ - which, I can only presume, means not much.” 

“Good.”

“Who’s Oracle?” Hal asks, following behind the others.

“An associate.”

“Ah. So one of Batman’s people?” he asks, referencing their earlier conversation. 

Alfred pauses, raising a prim eyebrow. “I certainly would not let _her_ hear your refer to her as such.”

“Ah.” If Bruce disagrees with that statement, he doesn’t say anything to dispute it. 

“Oracle is a tech prodigy,” he continues instead, approaching the main console. “She - and Alfred - have prepared you this.”

He holds out a palm-sized device. Hal steps forwards to take it, blinking. “A WayneTech phone?” 

“On the outside. In addition to a traditional cellular sim card, it also contains an embedded League communicator. I asked Oracle to help integrate the two.” Despite being outside of the cowl, he looks as stern as ever when he says, “Don’t lose it.” 

Hal rolls his eyes.

He looks the phone over. It's nothing like his old Nokia. Shaped less like a small brick, it's both thinner and heavier, with a full keyboard of tiny keys. Knowing Bruce, he wonders if this Oracle managed to pre-load it with all his old contacts. Hell, it could even be the same number.

He steals himself, then hits the button.

"Hunh," Hal exhales when it lights up. Somehow, already, there are messages waiting. Only three, thank God - for a second he was afraid the mysterious Oracle had done _too_ good a job, and he was going to have to wade through a year's backlog of missed calls and voicemails.

Alfred, sorting through gear to put away as Bruce takes the pieces of the Bat-suit over to their case, sends him an inquisitive look. 

“Seems I’m popular.” 

He opens the inbox.

_“Hey, Hal.”_

_“It’s Dinah.”_

_“Heard you were back. Call me when you get this?”_

He hits the call button before he even realizes what he’s doing. 

“Hal?” On the other end of the line, Dinah’s voice sounds worried and trying to mask it. He gives a weak smile, surprised how good it is to hear her voice.

“Hey, Di.” 

“...Damn, I hate cell phones. Now I wish I hadn’t told you to call.” 

Hal falters. “What?”

“Should have just said ‘I know where you are, and I’m coming to see you.’ - that wouldn’t have been weird, right?” she asks. 

Hal snorts. “I mean. It’s not too late?”

“...Yeah?”

“Sure. But you better not be all talk, ‘cause I’m not giving you any hints _now.”_

She chuckles. “Alright, Greenie. Don’t go anywhere.” Then she hangs up.

Hal does the same, before spontaneously remembering where he is. "Uh…"

“Um… I may have just invited Dinah over? Or she invited herself. I’m not really clear which," Hal says. His shoulders are angled slightly inward, the absence of his usual bravado making him look out of place in the vastness of the cave. Then again, Bruce himself is still in yesterday’s clothes, his trousers lacking their usual crispness. 

Finished closing the pieces of the Batsuit in their case, Bruce turns back to the main console. There's one more piece of... well, _hardware -_ that he needs to divest himself of before he goes up stairs, and becomes just 'Bruce Wayne' again. But, despite the fact that it takes up so little space, he's rather at a loss for what to do with the ring.

"Would that be Ms. Lance visiting, or Black Canary?" Alfred asks.

"She didn't say," Hal admits.

At the same time, Bruce answers, "Ms. Lance."

Hal looks at him, questioning. "I mean, that would be my guess, yeah."

"Dinah has more sense than to show up at the front door in costume. And, aside from transporting down from the watchtower, she doesn't have cave access."

"Oh." Hal looks surprised. “Huh,”

(Bruce doesn't mention that the only reason he told _Jordan_ of the upper access tunnels, originally, was because he didn't exactly trust the Lantern to have that sense.)

"Well, it will be good to see Ms. Lance again, regardless. I shall have to see if I can whip up some lemon bars to have on hand."

At the mention of Alfred's baking, Hal gives an almost obscene groan. "Yes, _please."_

Alfred looks amused at his reaction, though anyone who didn't know him well would be hard pressed to notice.

"Perhaps a late lunch, as well, is in order."

"I could _absolutely_ eat, if it's not too much trouble."

The butler hastens to reassure him that it’s “nothing of the sort.” Years of partnership let Bruce interpret the meaningful look Alfred sends his way, and he removes his hand from his pocket guiltily.

“I… am not sure what, if any, your next plans are,” he tells Hal haltingly. “But, as you may have noticed, the manor has more room than we could ever need. You are welcome to -” _(Not ‘make yourself at home’, he thinks)_ “- any of the guest rooms.”

Whether trying to decipher if Bruce means it, or just trying to choose what to say, Hal considers for a moment.

“Thanks,” he finally says. “I think I’ll take you up on that.”

Which is how Hal finds himself trailing after Alfred through a long hall towards a guest room - or, rather, his very own guest _suite._

They left Bruce behind in the study. With propitious timing, the phone rang just as they were emerging from the hidden stair to the cave. Though he obviously would have rather let it ring, Alfred’s stern gaze stopped him in his tracks. 

“I’ll let you answer that, Master Bruce. Did I mention, Mr. Fox has been trying to get a hold of you since this morning?”

As always, the Manor strikes Hal as more castle-like than anything constructed on their side of the Atlantic has any right too. The room he is lead to is spacious, done all in dark woods and earthy greens. Like all the bedrooms on the hall, it faces out to the back of the property; an overcast sky limits the amount of light that filters through the gap between the drapes. 

“I’ll go get lunch started,” Alfred says, “When you are ready, you will find the small parlour at the bottom of the stairs, second door on the right. I’ll bring tea, and Ms. Lance when she arrives.”

“Thanks, Alfred.”

Then he is gone. Hal sets his bag unceremoniously on the bed. He looks at his hands, held in front of him; though they feel like they should be - _are -_ shaking, he can detect not a tremor. On the left, the black velcro and neoprene-wrapped slats of the brace emerge from the sleeve of his flight jacket. The right hand is ringless.

Not that Bruce didn't try to correct that. The last thing he did before they ascended from the cave was get Hal’s attention. Wordlessly, he removed the Green Lantern ring from the pocket of his slacks, and placed it, sigil up, on the desk between them. Hal reached out, instinctively, to take it. With his hand still inches away, he paused, fingers curling back into a fist. After a moment, he withdrew the hand. 

If Bruce was surprised at the action, he give nothing away. 

“It will be safe, here, for now,” Hal heard himself say. 

In the third floor bedroom, he sighs. Wondering if he has time to shower before Dinah arrives, he pulls the new WayneTech phone from his jeans.

As if she read his mind, there is a text from Dinah already waiting.

_“ETA, 28.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, so as I'm posting this I realize I may have overdone it on the whole, Hal + food front. It's like I was channeling my mother, trying to fatten up my big brother because he was tall & skinny & playing lots of hockey... oops?
> 
> Also, you may notice the chapter count has gone up a bit... mostly because this one, the last one, _and_ the next one were a single chapter in my outline. But I sorta lost control of them. Idk, if it happens again we may be looking at another increase...
> 
> Anyway, if 'You have already left kudos here :)', maybe drop your favorite emoji in the comments?? No context necessary 😉


	9. Birdsong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinah drops by Wayne Manor to see Hal. She doesn't intend to kick-start the grieving process...  
> (or does she?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There's nothing graphic, but they do talk about the aftermath of the attack in this one. Conceivably, it could be triggering for people who have dealt in disaster response & relief.

The room Alfred indicated looks vaguely familiar, and Hal seems to recall drinking tea well-laden with honey there at least once before. For a 'small' parlor, it's easily larger than any suburban home's dining room. 

On one wall, an antique sideboard waits for the tea to be brought out. Across from it, the small, round dining table is flanked by two well-cushioned chairs, the rest of the set tucked against the wall. 

Hal remains on his feet while he waits for Alfred; on his infrequent visits to the manor, he has always felt a certain amount of reluctance to touch... anything.

It doesn’t take long. Alfred has only just arrived with the tea things when he tilts his head. A moment later, a faint chime sounds. "Ah, that would be Ms. Lance now," he says. Hal would wonder at the display of prescience, but… well, it’s Alfred. He follows the butler out of the room.

Sure enough, Dinah is waiting on the step when he pulls the door open. 

"Alfred!"

"Ms. Lance. How nice it is to see you," he greets.

Then, spotting Hal trailing behind like a lone duckling, she continues, "Hal _Jordan."_

Somehow she manages to pack a whole wealth of meaning into just his name - everything from _"Where have you been?"_ to _"Welcome home."_

The smile he returns is perhaps a little weaker than it could be. "Hey, Di."

Dinah has never been much of a hugger - not like Ollie. But she squeezes his shoulders firmly as she goes in for the cheek-kiss, and the brief contact serves to ground him. 

Alfred settles them in the parlor, producing a lunch tray to go with the tea. In addition to the plate piled with sandwiches - cut into neat triangles, of course - there's a platter with almonds, grapes, and cheeses - though no lemon bars, yet. 

Still, his mouth waters. Dinah teases, "You sure there's enough to share, Hal?"

"Fuck off, Di. I'm not a speedster," he replies as he fills a plate. Thinking of Barry prompts that old, familiar ache; these days, missing his best friend is like stretching out a strained muscle: sharp, at first, then easing as it loosens. It's a grief he has experience handling, so he breathes deep, and then lets it out on the exhale.

"Considering even Wally West has yet to eat us out of house and home, I think the kitchen can handle it," Alfred says, dry. "But, you might want to save some room for dessert. Ms. Lance, I do believe I've made your favorite - and you are not to go anywhere until I've boxed you up the extra," he instructs.

Dinah laughs, light. "Gladly - but only if you promise to show me what you're growing, these days." 

"It would be an honor, and a pleasure."

Then he's gone, and it's just the two of them. 

Dinah studies him, her expression suddenly serious, and it's like she's seeing straight into his soul. Hal tries not to fidget. When she speaks, it's to voice the question he's been anticipating - dreading even. Still, it's a relief to have it finally out in the open.

"So," she starts, "How are you holding up?*

Because this is Dinah, he answers honestly. "Not a fucking clue.” 

When she just makes a noise of sympathy, inviting him to continue, Hal sighs. “I don't know if you heard - Carol, Jim and the kids, they made it. They're fine." She nods, though whether in acknowledgement or because she had previous knowledge, he couldn't say.

"And I didn't really have many friends left at Ferris. Or outside the life at all, really.

"But… well. The neighbors? The barista who's name I never learned? Hell, at least half my high school classmates never left. I can only assume _they're_ all gone. How am I supposed to feel - when so many are dead, but the people _I_ cared most about…" 

He trails off, not choked up, exactly, but because he's run out of words to explain the strange… distance he feels.

Dinah waits, letting him gather his thoughts - but they're scattered out of reach, like a game of 52 pick-up gone wrong. "However you're feeling, Hal - that's how you're supposed to be feeling. There's no 'right' way to grieve."

He grimaces. "And if I'm not feeling much at all."

"I may just be a florist," she offers - to which Hal snorts - "and I'm not trying to imply you are in denial, but I'm pretty sure shock is a thing."

Under his breath, he huffs, "Oh, denial is definitely a thing."

She raises an eyebrow. Hal looks down, studying his hands. He takes a breath, getting ready to explain - but what comes out surprises him.

"I can't stop thinking about the old lady who owned the Chinese restaurant around the corner,” he says, and realizes it’s true. “She ran that place like an iron fist, but kept the walls papered in certificates and school report cards. Used to show pictures of her hoard of grandchildren to anyone who mentioned it. And, I mean, there’s no way to be sure, but... how many of _them_ lived in Coast? 

"I mean, 7 _million_ _people,"_ he says. And, okay, maybe he _is_ a little choked up. "I didn't even know Coast City _had_ that many people."

He can't seem to continue. Eventually, Dinah breaks the silence. 

"There... weren't. Not in Coast City." 

Hal's head lifts; she’s looking in his direction, but it’s more like she’s seeing through him, gaze distant.

"What? I-" The casualty figure is the one thing he thought he was sure of: Bruce used it, the news gave it.

She blinks, then examines his face. "How much do you know about what happened?"

"B told me about the… Cyborg Superman. How he fooled the government. Mongul and the War World. He sort of... glossed over the attack itself."

"That's… understandable." She frowns. "It's horrible, what happened to Coast City, after all. Wiped off the map like that-" 

Hal has to look away, taking a bite of his egg salad sandwich as a distraction. 

"-but the damage wasn't limited to Coast. Swaths of Orange County, LA County - even the outskirts of San Diego took damage. The destruction corridor spanned near a hundred miles."

His face goes cold, and he realizes it's probably the first time he's ever actually _felt_ the blood drain out of it.

"Probably little more than half the casualties were in Coast City, itself."

"How- I didn’t hear _anything_ about that."

"That… doesn't surprise me. For better or worse," she sighs. "It's Coast City the whole world mourned.

"You know how many people survived the attack in the greater LA area? Who were pulled out by rescue efforts, had only minor injuries or managed to get themselves, their families to safety? I think the total was somewhere around 30,000.”

She grimaces. "There were 623 survivors from Coast City."

Hal stares at her, no doubt some of his horror showing on his face. "But - why? Was the destruction that much worse?"

"Not.. really. There was just… no way to reach them in time.

"We saved those we could, but the rubble couldn’t be moved with muscle power alone. It needed cranes, drills, machinery. Things that had been decimated in the attack, and had to be pulled in from all over. But… none of those things would ever reach Coast. It would have taken weeks, between the state of the roads… and there were plenty of people just trapped, just as in need of that equipment, all around the periphery. 

"The _only_ survivors who made it out of Coast City were those who could walk or drag themselves - or could be lifted in a fireman’s carry without first having to be found and dug free - to the military transports that managed to navigate the rubble."

 _"God."_ Hal sits in horrified silence, until something catches his attention.

"You said _we?_ Was the League…"

"They were there, of course. Just about every meta, vigilante, or hero who thought they might make a difference came to help the rescue efforts."

Her expression goes tight.

"Even those of us who couldn’t, couldn’t stay away. We didn’t all get suited up - a sonic cry wasn’t going to help anyone, even if I could manage it without my head imploding these days." A trace of bitterness Hal only detects because he knows her so well seeps in at that.

"But, Ollie and I… we spent three weeks in that hell. Fetching and carrying. Bagging trash. Serving sandwiches and whatever else we could scrape together to the teams - searchers with their dogs, firemen and first responders, the men and women in hardhats and work vests trying their best to make a dent in the rubble."

"Ollie didn't… he didn’t even _mention_ it."

"Oliver… had a hard time feeling helpless," her brow wrinkles. "Not that he was the only one. There was nothing to shoot, no one to punch. No money to throw at the problem. 

"Even with all our debts… well, I don’t think he had ever really known what it meant to be poor _and_ powerless, until then," she says.

"I should have been there." It's a thoughtless, instinctual response, but that doesn't mean Hal doesn't _mean_ it.

Dinah takes a moment. "If you had," she says slowly, refusing to sugar coat even this, "Maybe you could have saved someone. Maybe, you could have even saved dozens, more.

"But, Hal. You couldn’t have saved them all. No one could, at that point."

" …Maybe," Hal admits. "But maybe, just one… would have been enough." 

He doesn’t say enough for what - enough to not feel so guilty? Enough to know that he did _something?_

Enough that he could live with himself?

"Maybe it would have. But you can’t live on maybes, Hal. We have to move forward-" she gives a sad smile when she adds, "-besides. There will always be someone more in need of saving."

Hal finishes off his tea. He considers pouring another cup, more so he won’t have to meet Dinah’s eyes than out of any desire to drink it.

But in the lull, Bruce comes down the stairs. He's dressed in work clothes - not yesterday's slacks, but a new, fresh suit. He must be headed into the office after all, then.

"Dinah," he says, from the parlour doorway, "Is the Holy Land still in one piece?"

She stands to greet him. "More or less. Are you going to join us? I hear Alfred has been baking." 

He grimaces. "Unfortunately, I’ve been summoned - the board refuses to be put off, for once." 

"Well. We _might_ consider saving you some," she says.

"I won’t hold my breath.” He glances toward Hal, though he addresses the room when he speaks. “It should be quick - just in and out. But my window to beat rush hour is very narrow, and if I don’t make it back across before the bridge backs up… well, we’ll see." 

He pauses, then says to Dinah, "If I don’t catch you, perhaps we might get together later.”

Di’s eyebrows jump, a little surprised at the offer. “Of course, Bruce,” she says. 

He stands there a moment more, looking awkward despite the fact that he is the only one of them that actually _belongs_ there, before giving a nod as he goes. Hal, ostensibly chewing a bite of his fourth sandwich, throws a simple wave of acknowledgment. 

Dinah pours them both more tea as she sits back down. 

“Why are you in Gotham, anyway?” Hal prompts.

“Oh, I’m… between jobs at the moment. My- handler, I guess you might say? She’s based out of Gotham.”

She adds a single cube of sugar to her tea. “Oracle’s how I learned you were back, actually. Well, her, and Oliver.”

“The mysterious Oracle again.” At Dinah’s curious look, Hal shakes his head, murmuring, “Nothing. Ignore me.”

"Oh, honey. I generally do," she smirks. “I assume Bruce has offered you some obnoxiously palacious guest suite in the manor?” 

Her appraisal is so spot-on it triggers a snort from Hal. “You could say that.” 

“Are you going to take him up on it?”

“Where else am I gonna go, Di?” 

Dinah's cup clinks softly against the saucer as she sets it down. “Honestly, Hal? I- would have expected you to stay in California. If not with Oliver, then... shouldn't you be with your family?”

Hal considers a response. The excuse he gave Bruce for turning down Ollie's offer seems flimsy in retrospect. Plus, he can't exactly drop the news on Dinah before Oliver even realizes he’s a father. So he answers her other question. 

“I… didn’t think I was ready. To be ‘Uncle Hal’ - you know, giver of gifts and piggy-back rides," he explains.

She makes a sympathetic noise, though a hit of doubt still creases her brow. “I can see that. I’m not sure I agree, but… I understand. 

“You’ve talked to them, though?” she prompts. He must make a face at that, giving her his answer. “Really, Hal? Not even a ‘hey, I’m alive?’”

“In my defense, I’ve only had a phone again for less than an hour," he says, pulling the device from his pocket.

“Uh-huh.” Dinah's skeptical tone shows what she thinks of the excuse. But she lets it go. "WayneTech, is it? Fancy,” she observes.

“And a Justice League communicator, supposedly." At her confused look, he shrugs and adds, simply, "Bruce."

“Ah.” 

Dinah gives him a break then, and they switch to lighter, ordinary topics. Hal is grateful for the subject change; he can go back to ignoring his feelings - or lack thereof.

Though, he can’t _quite_ ignore the oddity of the situation. For one, he's having tea in Gotham, with Dinah Lance, both of them in battered leather jackets that don't mesh with the splendor of their surroundings. And, as nice as the manor is, Hal has never been fully comfortable around displays of wealth.

But then Alfred arrives with a half-dozen lemon bars on a plate, and Hal mentally forgives whichever Wayne ancestor had the audacity to build a frickin' castle in New Jersey. Without them, he might very well not be experiencing the pure bliss that is Alfred’s baking. 

With no oven to get back to, Dinah manages to talk Alfred into joining them. She pours him his own cup of tea, and then draws him into conversation. 

Hal occasionally forgets that Dinah was born in this city; that she's not a West Coast native like him, or Oliver. And although he isn’t from there, the Englishman has probably lived more years in Gotham than Di's had birthdays. From theatre and the arts, to a family restaurant in Eastchase that's approaching it’s 75 anniversary, it's probably the first time he's ever heard a conversation about Gotham where the crime rate _isn't_ mentioned. It's different, to hear the city spoken of without the instinctive scorn of a non-Gothamite, nor the protective - make that _possessive_ \- growl of Batman. It's more like they're gossiping about an old friend, fondly and with occasional exasperation. 

Still, in the end he's not invested enough in the conversation to keep his mind from wandering. His contributions diminish from actual questions, to the occasional comment, to non-verbal vocalizations. By the time he’s reaching out to find the dessert plate empty, Hal has lost the thread of conversation completely. It's the barely contained excitement in Dinah’s voice that regains his attention, in time to realize that the others have moved on, from talk of Gotham to gardening. 

"Of course. The Pilea has quite a few pups. I have been preparing to re-pot them, and can hardly think of a better home," the old butler is saying. Dinah, for all that she spends much of her time kicking ass and taking names, has always had a soft spot for green and growing things - see: The Sherwood Florist, which will always be one of the few puns to make Hal smile instead of groan. 

"Coming, Hal?" Dinah prompts as she stands, ready and anxious to follow the Englishman to the conservatory. He stands to follow, then changes his mind before he can open his mouth.

"You go ahead, Di" he says. When her expression dims into a frown, he reassures her. "Just - taking your advice. I have a few calls to make."

The clouds on her face are replaced by a soft smile and, unless he's mistaken, a hint of relief.

"Come find you after?" 

"Alright," she agrees.

He lets her take care of making his excuses to Alfred as she trails him out of the room. Hal considers his new phone, debating whether to return to his newly assigned guest room, then plops back into his chair.

Before he can put it off, or second guess himself, Hal punches in Jim's number from memory. Only once the mechanical voice is speaking does it occur to him the number might not be the same - what happens to a city's area code, anyway, when the city no longer exists?

_> > The number you are trying to reach is not in service. Please try again or…<<_

Hal’s stomach swoops. He frowns, before remembering something: Dinah had his number before he even got his hands on the phone. He checks the contacts, and, sure enough, there’s an entry for a ‘James Jordan’. 

Hal shakes his head, lips pursed into a small smile at the formality, as he hits ‘dial’.

A familiar voice answers on the third ring. "Jim Jordan," comes the simple greeting. For a second, Hal's tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth.

"Hello?" his brother prompts, confused by the long silence. Hal clears his throat before Jim can hang up.

"Hey, Jimmy," he says.

There's a brief, startled silence.

"Hal!? Is that you!?” 

“It’s me,” he confirms. 

“Where the _heck_ have you been?? No, I know, don’t answer that. Hang on, let me just-” 

Sounds of rustling filter through the line, like the phone is being held against something. There’s quiet, followed by a faint ‘thump’ like a door closing. Then Jim is back.

“God, it’s good to hear from you. We were beginning to think something had happened. When you didn’t… when we didn’t hear anything."

"Yeah, I’m… I’m sorry. I only found out yesterday."

"Oh,” There’s something like disappointment in his tone, which confuses Hal. “So, are you calling from the stars, then? What planet are you on today?”

And Hal realizes - Jim thinks he’s calling because the word just reached him. Which, in a way, it did. But not in the way Jim thinks.

He clarifies: "Earth. I’m on Earth, I’m not… I just got back yesterday."

And Jim must realize what that means, the timing of him getting back and finding out, because he utters one of the few swear words Hal has heard out of his brother since the kids’ came along.

"Oh. Fuck."

Trust Jim to be both succinct and yet eloquent. 

“Well. We’re alive,” he hastens to say. “I mean. Sue, the kids, and I - though, if not for a last minute trip to Sue’s parents…” he trails off; the alternative goes unsaid.

“Thank God for the in-laws?” Hal offers, trying for humor.

“Ha. Just this once. I-” Jim stops. The line goes quiet for a moment, silence stretching from San Francisco to Gotham, while Hal waits for him to continue. 

"You know, I think that’s the first time I ever truly wished I were you?"

It's… not at all what he was expecting. "What does _that_ mean?" he asks, startled.

Jim huffs quietly. Hal can just imagine him, eyes closed, thumb pressed against the bridge of his glasses. "Sorry, I just… honest to God, I would have _killed_ for that ring of yours in that moment. To have the ability to just - fly back. To whatever was left. I wanted - we all wanted - so desperately to be able to _do_ something.

"The kids… there was this _fever_. They got caught up in it, too. The donation drives started, and they didn’t understand that we didn’t exactly _have_ things to donate, not anymore. That they wouldn’t be able to go back and reclaim the playstation, all their toys and clothes and things, when it was ‘over’. That there wasn’t going to be a day where it was ‘over’ - everyone ‘saved’, everything okay, the rubble cleared so we could just... go home."

Hal swallows. He’s _so_ not ready to address all of that. “And now? How are they liking San Francisco?”

“How did- Right. Forgot who I was talking to. They’re… adjusting. I think. You’ve… missed so much.”

Hal’s shoulders tighten. “I didn’t -”

“Hang on, that’s - that didn’t come out how I meant. Didn’t mean it as a guilt trip. Just. Trying to figure out where to start, you know?”

And Hal does. The only person he’s run into that didn’t seem at a loss has been Dinah - but she’s never been afraid to jump straight into the deep end.

God bless his little brother, because Jim figures it out. Hal relaxes as he listens to updates on the kids, their latest activities and ever-changing interests. He hears about Sue’s new job, the updates they want to make on the house, and the struggle of finding a counselor for Harry, before Jim finally asks, “Where are you, anyway? When will we see you? I can send you the address, to the new place, assuming the Powers That Be didn’t provide that along with the new phone number.”

“I’m… in Gotham,” Hal answers, “But I’m not exactly flight-capable at the moment.”

Jim scoffs, showing the near-universal derision for Bruce’s city. “And you chose _Gotham,_ of all places, to land? How’s the Bat going to feel about that?”

Hal pauses; the reference to Batman throws him for a moment. But he shakes it off; Jim knows about the ring, and his Lantern duties, but it’s not like he’s ever freely discussed League business - or shared his occasional frustration with the Bat - with his civilian brother. It’s… interesting to realize how much of Bruce’s possessiveness over his hometown must be common knowledge. 

“I’m here at his invitation, actually.” Somehow, he even manages to keep his lingering disbelief out of his voice. 

“Uh-huh,” Jim responds, not bothering to hide his doubt. Something about the sound tells Hal he has more to say, but then he stops. 

“Shoot,” he says, “I gotta go, Hal. Last meeting of the day. But call again later - and let me know when you’re able to head this way. I’ll put Sue on coming up with an excuse for pulling the kids out of school for a few days, something better than ‘Uncle, nearly presumed dead, returns from the stars.’” It’s meant as a humorous statement, but Hal knows Jim well enough to hear the note of tension at the edges, lingering evidence of the past few months of strain, and he winces.

They’ve never been the kind of siblings to say ‘I love you’. Still, Hal trusts that the sentiment comes through when he says, “Hug Sue and the kids for me.” 

“Will do. Though, when I tell them I talked to you they are going to go _insane_.”

“Sorry,” Hal instinctively apologizes before he even realizes what he’s saying.

“Don’t be,” Jim responds, a little sharper than necessary. “I mean, it’s good news, right - whatever the fallout, it’s worth it.”

Only after they hang up, when Hal goes to grab the phone from where it’s tucked between his ear and shoulder, does he realize what had kept his two hands occupied. He wonders what, if anything, Jim thought of the sound of velcro being repeatedly fastened and unfastened. He re-adjusts the brace with a sigh, loosening the straps that are all but cutting off circulation from his unconscious fiddling. 

_“It’s good news,”_ Jim’s words replay in his head. _“Whatever the fallout, it’s worth it.”_

 _“Honest-to-God, I would have_ killed _for that ring of yours in that moment.”_

_“There wasn’t going to be a day when it was over - everyone saved - everything okay.”_

Hal shoves himself back from the table, almost knocking his chair over as he goes. He needs to be moving, not sitting.

He needs- 

Hal’s pacing steps falter at the entrance to the parlor, realizing:

_He needs to fly._

With a frown, he shakes himself and starts moving again. That’s not a possibility, right now, so. He’ll just have to go find Di, like he said he would. 

Only… there may have been a slight oversight made on his part, when he made that promise. Because he doesn’t actually know where the conservatory _is._ The word sparks the image of a generic greenhouse-like room in his head, but can’t tell him to take a right or a left at the end of the hall. And wandering aimlessly around Wayne Manor seems… unlikely to get him much closer. 

Instead, Hal finds himself retracing his steps, returning to the study. The grandfather clock hardly gives him pause; it’s been a while, since he’s seen Bruce do this, but evidently he still remembers how.

He only notes the comfortable warmth of the Manor as he’s leaving it behind for the chill of the cave. The slightly damp air, while a few degrees cooler than above, stops just short of being uncomfortable. 

Hal may tell himself he doesn’t even know why he’s there, but his feet don’t hesitate. They take him straight over to the main console, the giant monitors that make displaying the terabytes of data regularly processed by the ‘Batcomputer’ a snap. But he has no eyes for the impressive tech - at least, not for the _Earthly_ kind. His ring - probably one hundredth the size of Bruce’s mainframe, with all the computing power, and more - sits there still. The middle finger on his right hand suddenly and fiercely itches, and he clenches his fist tight. 

He could put on the ring. He _should,_ probably, put on the ring. It may be a useless hunk of non-terrestrial metal, at the moment, but there’s no reason not to.

Except. A mere piece of jewelry, extraterrestrial or otherwise, is not going to sooth his mind. (He’s not a child, in need of a comfort object. He’s a Lantern, a _pilot_ , who just happens to be grounded.)

In a fit of pique, he spins away, placing his back firmly to the desk. If a soft, frustrated growl escapes his clenched jaw, well - there’s no one to hear except the bats. 

(What he needs is a _distraction.)_

His gaze flits around the cave, from training mats to weapons racks, free weights to heavy bag.

(He remembers being a teenager, when the local bullies finally learned to leave Jim alone, leaving Hal with one less outlet for the anger that was always simmering under the surface. The pangs of guilt, when he found himself wishing they hadn’t learned their lesson quite so well.

He remembers being on the boxing team in the academy, spending extra time in the ring to work out his frustration. The old sergeant who was his instructor, calling _“don’t drop that right guard on me, kid, I’ve still got two hands!”)_

And, well. He still has two hands. 

Hal crosses to the punching bag. (He doesn’t need a ring for this. He doesn’t even _really_ need gloves.)

He throws a punch. Frowns. Shrugs out of his jacket, then tries another. He adjusts his form.

A solid right jab; Hal tries to funnel into his fist all the anxious energy that’s threatening to boil out his ears. 

He swings, but his follow-through is off and he can't find his rhythm; it feels unbalanced, to work with just the one side. He tries throwing in a feint with his left to offset, but he can't make a proper fist with the damn brace in the way. 

(He should probably take that as a sign.)

Instead, he pulls at the velcro, stripping it off. Athletic tape is easy to come by in the well-stocked cave, between the chalk rags by a rack of free weights. The old motions come back even easier, as he winds the strip around his wrist for stability, then over his thumb and around his hand for good measure. Impatient, he tears off the end with his teeth. 

He makes a fist; much better.

Still, he has every intention of sticking to feints with the left side. Of barely letting his taped knuckles graze the leather, before swinging back in with his right, grunting a little from the impact. His breaths come a little faster, a bit harder as he works up a sweat. But his lungs feel a little freer as his blood starts to sing.

The first time he forgets to go easy on the left side, he feels nothing but a hint of surprise. Experimentally, he punches with the left again - for real, this time. His wrist twinges, the dull, background ache sharpening for an instant, but it's not a _bad_ feeling. Not _good_ , exactly. More like the pain when you prod at a healing bruise, for no better reason than that it's there.

He falls into a pattern. For every few rights he throws a left, for every few feints he makes contact. It's a relief to be in motion; it's not flight, not feeling the g-forces when you haul through a turn, or watching the puffs of clouds form and drift away below you, but it's something.

It feels like it may even be enough…

Until it's not.

The unnamed fury is too cold to be boiling, but it bubbles up from his toes all the same. His skin feels stretched too thin to contain the pressure; it reminds him of being hooked up to an IV, cold fluids pumping down the line into the back of your hand until it feels like a water balloon about to pop. 

(If and when he explodes, at least, Alfred's china and Wayne's heirlooms are safe in the halls above. Hell, knowing Bruce, the Batcave is probably designed with enough contingencies to contain a nuclear warhead.) 

But, while Hal Jordan may be a force of nature, that force is not an earthquake; there is no tsunami when the pressure reaches critical. Instead he collapses with a grunt, like the hurricane force winds he's been leaning against suddenly cease, and there's nothing to hold him up in the eye of the storm.

Rolling onto his back, he blinks up at the ceiling. Perhaps, he’ll just... take a minute. Watch the bats. 

(If the anger starts to leak out of the corner of his eyes, well… they sure as hell won’t tell anyone.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I could not catch a break with this chapter. Literally! I went like 8,000+ words without finding a good place to cut it, before I backtracked. So you get a long one, and it's _still_ kind of an awkward stop... *sighs*  
> Anyway, sorry for the lack of Bruce! His POV for these few hours was messing with the flow, though, so we'll see some of it in the next one.  
> Feel free leave me a 🦇 if you are upset about it :)


	10. The Hand That Heals

Hal blinks up at the roof of the cavern, the thin pad below him barely masking the hard floor. The prickling sensation of cooling sweat starts at his hairline and then spreads. The hanging bag over his hip is swaying, slightly, from the force of his last blows. 

When the ache in his hands registers, he shifts to take a look, tucking in his chin rather than bothering to lift his head. He must have been at it for longer than he thought, because the knuckles on his right hand are flayed and bloody. Flecks of red stain the white wrappings on his left, and, when he glances up, a hint of wetness glimmers on the bag. 

Hal groans. He should probably clean that up, but. It would definitely require moving. After a moment, he scrapes together just enough energy to start working the tape off his wrist.

Eventually, the whisper of footsteps on the stairs forces him up. He snags a clean rag to run over the leather, relieved when only a light smudge of copper comes away on the cloth - the shine of moisture must be from transferred sweat, or the damp air of the cave. Still, he wipes the whole thing down with firm, efficient strokes.

"Ah. We had wondered where you got to, Master Jordan."

Hal looks up to find the butler is alone, and winces. "Did Dinah leave?"

"I'm afraid so. She said something about preferring to conduct cemetery visits in the daylight hours."

The feeling of guilt in his gut intensifies; _Of course, Dinah's mother would be buried in Gotham._

"Sorry," he says, feeling like the apology is inadequate.

"I can think of nothing for which you owe me an apology," Alfred says. His raised brow does, however, imply that he owes it to _some_ one. 

"Well. I'll call Dinah in a bit, thank her for coming by," he says awkwardly. He uses a clean bit of the rag in his hand to wipe some of the sweat from behind his neck.

The look of approval in the old butler's eye changes swiftly to consternation when he sees the damaged knuckles that had already slipped Hal's mind.

"My goodness," he says, startled. "What _have_ you done to your hands." 

Hal glances down. On his left, the last layer of white tape still clings to his wrist, where Hal left it when he realized what he was in for after skipping the usual gauze routine; in a fight between adhesive and arm hair, the tape always wins. On the right, meanwhile, the back of his hand around each knuckle is decorated with the dark red of mostly-dried blood.

"I thought your wrist was hurt?" Alfred is prompting, while he takes the dirty rag from Hal and grips the bloody hand in his well-lined ones to look it over. 

Hal willfully misunderstands. "It's just some bloody knuckles."

Despite his attempts to deflect, Hal finds himself dragged over to the cave's medbay by the power of Alfred’s stern gaze. He lets the scraped skin be cleaned and bandaged. He doesn't even wince at the sting of the disinfectant - though his stoicism doesn't last when Alfred turns his attention to the other wrist. He hisses when the scissors are slipped under the tape to the outside of his wrist; the sudden stab of pain catches him by surprise. Alfred's brow furrows bin concern. 

"I could soak the tape, perhaps loosen the adhesive with a wash of dissolution fluid-" he starts 

Hal waves him off. "It’s fine. Better to rip off the bandaid."

"If you are certain…”

Hal does a better job of hiding his wince when the tape does, in fact, rip away most of the hair under it when it goes. The sharp stinging discomfort is quickly replaced by a dull, aching throb.

Alfred's stiff upper lip remains in place when he remarks, "This is swollen. What, exactly, was the nature of the previous injury?"

"Well. It was pretty much healed," Hal starts, but something about Alfred's bearing won't let him dodge the question completely. "But, before that it was broken. Supposedly."

Alfred's expression shifts just enough to tell Hal he has noticed the attempt to downplay things, and is not impressed. "Well. I think I would prefer to have some x-rays, then. See if we can… confirm your diagnosis."

 _Of course_ the cave has its own x-ray machine, Hal thinks. 

"You could make a career out of this," Hal jokes, while Alfred deftly preps the machine and his wrist. 

Alfred raises an eyebrow. The expression is so much like Bruce’s that Hal figures he knows where Bats picked up the habit. "What makes you think I have not?" he inquires. And, well - 

"Touché.”

While Alfred processes the radiograph, Hal retrieves his flight jacket to combat the rapid cooling of his muscles. To his surprise, the image is ready in under half an hour; from his few experiences with ER visits, he always assumed the process took much longer. 

"So, not that I don't have immense respect for your skills, but did you happen to get an M.D. while I was away? Cause all I can tell from that is, look," Hal points, "there's a bit of bone, and look, there's some more bones."

Alfred is too polite to roll his eyes. "Indeed.” His voice is as dry as the Sahara. “I will admit, I am no radiologist. Thankfully, Doctor Thompkins should arrive shortly. I believe she will appreciate that we have given her the leg up, as it were."

"Hang on, when the hel-heck did you even have time to call the doc? Seriously, Alf, I'm sure it's fine," he protests.

"As a matter of fact, that would be Master Bruce's doing. He put in a call earlier, and asked her to stop by. When her other duties allowed, that is.

"Now, let's see about that swelling."

Alfred expertly packs Hal's wrist with layers of ice wrapped in clear plastic film. He grits his teeth through the initial chill, but the numbness spreads quickly - at least, along the surface. The throbbing ache, it seems, runs too deep for the cold to have the same effect. In what feels like overkill, he’s given a gel pack for his knuckles as well, but he’s not willing to argue with Alfred. At least, not when he already refused painkillers, much to the man’s disapproval. Hal feels a bit like a child in timeout, when Alfred directs him to a seat out of the way to wait the 20 minutes for the ice to do its job.

The time is almost up when Bruce appears, an older woman in tow. Dr. Thompkins (Hal presumes - he hasn't actually met the good doctor, before) is discussing something quietly with Bruce as they arrive. From the way her eyes go straight to the medbay, without a detour to marvel at the giant cavern under Wayne Manor, Hal assumes she's seen it before.. 

Bruce crosses to the desk, leaving Alfred to handle introductions. Out of the corner of his eye, Hal barely catches the way he swipes the lantern ring out of sight; Bruce makes the action look natural, like he's just checking something on the monitors. Then Alfred’s voice draws his attention back to the doc.

Before he even meets her, Hal already has a significant amount of respect for this woman. If she's had even the slightest hand in how long Bruce has survived in their world - without superpowers, or a super-powered ring - Leslie Thompkins deserves a certain amount of credit. 

Her grip and voice are like steel, despite the silver of her hair and the hint of crows' feet around her eyes. When the first thing she does after they are introduced is open her mouth to give him grief, he likes her even more.

"Should I even guess which one of his crazy caped friends you are? Obviously not Superman," she says, eyes narrowed at the sight of his damaged knuckles. 

"No," Bruce answers, at the same time as Hal is saying:

"No cape here - don’t tell B, but I’ve never been a fan."

"Hmph. So not the big green guy, either," she comments, releasing his right hand. It makes Hal grin, and he glances over at Bruce, inviting him to share the joke. The smile falters, though, when he catches sight of B's face. Once, he would have interpreted the mildly constipated look on his face as disappointment; now, he's not so sure.

“Whatever happened to the promise to keep it braced,” Batman says, his gruff tone just short of an actual growl. 

Hal’s eyes dart across the cavern to the discarded item. “Uhh… about that...”

Bruce left the office thinking he could still make it across Kane Memorial before rush hour hit the bridge. If it hadn't been for a fender bender blocking one of the northbound lanes, he likely would have. Instead, he gets stuck in the crush not quite halfway over the sound, trying to reign in his impatience as the traffic stacks up behind him

Usually, Bruce likes driving: likes the purr of a well-kept machine, likes matching his acceleration to the curve of the road, likes the power of harnessed combustion under his control.

He absolutely _loathes_ traffic. He begrudges every moment wasted creeping forward by inches which could be put to other, more productive purposes. And, for once, he regrets not staying out of the city. 

He understands why the board - why Lucius, really - insisted on his presence. How their hands had been tied by corporate politics, and policy, preventing them from managing the problem Keren’s obstruction presented. Bruce Wayne, majority shareholder and CEO, didn't have the same restrictions. He was able to send the (now former) VP of Human Resources packing, shuffling him out of the way as soon as he realized what was going on. He understands that it was a problem only he could solve. 

Still, the company likely would have survived another day or two of the man throwing his weight around. Instead, Bruce spent less than an hour in the office, and what is looking to be _more_ than that in transit time. And the longer he is away from the manor, the more a vague uneasiness grows in his gut.

Bruce keeps one hand on the steering wheel as he inches the car forward. Absently, the other goes to his thigh over his pocket, only to remember the ring he spent the last day carrying is no longer there. Seeking a distraction, he turns on the radio. But the semi-frantic pace of Smetana’s _Dance of the Comedians_ doesn't have the same calming effect of your average sonata, so he flips the station. The smooth voice of Stevie Wonder spills out of the speakers, and he slowly withdraws his hand. 

Finally, the car squeezes past the bottleneck, and Bruce accelerates down the last third of the bridge’s arc. He speeds past the suburbs, edges around the tiny heart of Bristol Township, and takes the state highway toward home. He exceeds the speed limit more than is strictly necessary, but he knows the two-lane road like the back of his hand, like the seams in the Batsuit; he can’t help but lean into the curves. 

His anxiety eases as he pulls into the main garage, then promptly spikes again at a text from Alfred.

_“Welcome back. Doctor Thompkins has just pulled up, if you will show her downstairs? I have x-rays prepped and ready.”_

Which - how the hell did that happen?

(He doesn’t mean Leslie’s arrival; after all, he called her himself. It's the about-face, from tea in the parlour to x-rays in the cave, that gives him pause.) 

Doctor Thomspkins must not have been far behind him, because by the time Bruce makes it from garage to foyer, she is waiting for him.

“Bruce, what a nice surprise. I rather expected Alfred.”

“Leslie,” he greets. She hasn’t hugged him since he was a boy, when she figured out he barely tolerated the physical contact, but the physician's bag she carries makes her nod of greeting only practical.

“So,” she asks, stepping inside as he moves to make way, “Who am I here for? You weren’t exactly clear, on the phone.”

He explains in a few words, about the… friend of his, with a healing fracture, a diagnosis Bruce doesn't exactly trust, and his personal opinion that the wrist is giving him more pain than Hal will admit to. 

Leslie snorts. “Now, why does that not surprise me,” she offers, voice heavy with sarcasm as he leads her through the study. 

In the cave, he lets Alfred handle the introductions while he swipes the distinctive Lantern ring out of sight. While Leslie would likely never have noticed the its presence, secret identities are not kept by being careless. Only then does he turn his focus to Hal, frowning at what he finds.

The other man looks even more worn than before, and the wild look in his eyes, the one that faded to a mere glimmer somewhere over Illinois, is starting to return. Then, there's the state of his knuckles, and the ice on his wrist. Bruce swiftly scans the cave, noticing the light-weight, minimal support brace discarded on the ground - not three feet from the heavy bag. 

Anger flares up, but it’s directed more towards himself than at Hal. Every moment it looks more like leaving Hal alone was a mistake. To think, he was relieved when he heard Dinah was stopping by; Bruce thought spending time with her would be good for the Lantern. He can’t imagine her saying anything to set Hal off - not like Bruce worries he himself might.

He tunes into the conversation in time to hear Leslie’s rhetorical: “Should I even guess which one of the crazy capes you might be?” Whether she meant the question or not, Bruce answers it; of course, so does Hal. 

He can't quite help the question that spills out when Hal glances his way, or moderate his tone to keep the bite out of it. Hal almsost winces at the mild recrimination, but Leslie interrupts before he comes up with an answer.

"Well, come on," she says to her new patient, "There's only one corner of this place with halfway decent light for an exam." Bruce wants to roll his eyes; the lighting in the cave hasn't been a real point of contention between them for some time, but it's something for Leslie to grumble about other than his life choices. 

She stops him when Bruce moves to follow. 

"If this was my clinic, now would be the time I ask for proof of parent- or guardianship," she says.

He pauses, half amused and half annoyed at the implication that she could throw him out of his own medbay. Not that he wouldn't go, if she insisted. But Hal speaks up first.

"It's fine, doc. He can stay, I don't care." 

Interestingly enough, Leslie doesn't remark at all about Alfred's presence, when he brings her the x-rays and begins removing the ice from Hal's wrist.

Bruce watches, noting the hint of a frown the doctor develops as she examines the radiograph. Though Leslie likely thinks her professional mask hides what she's thinking, the older woman doesn't have Batman's training in the field. After a few long moments, she switches from inspecting the x-ray of Hal's wrist to the wrist itself, turning it this way and that.

"Uh, doc," Hal speaks into the quiet. "I can't feel that." He indicates the way she is poking at prodding at the limb.

"No pain?" she asks.

"That, too." Bruce tenses in understanding, even before Hal adds, "But I actually meant, I can't _feel_ that."

"Hmm. I was afraid of that," she remarks. But her tone is cool and collected, and despite her words, his shoulders relax. She does - something- before instructing him to wiggle his fingers. "Better?"

He makes a face. "Aside from the 1,000 tiny acupuncturists that just went to town."

Leslie just nods, continuing her exam. And really, Hal’s patience lasts longer than Bruce would have thought.

Finally, he asks, “So, what’s the prognosis? How much longer am I looking at?”

“For a return to full and pain-free use of the hand? You should really talk to an orthopedist, but I’m pretty sure you’re looking at surgery.”

Hal sucks in a startled breath at the word ‘surgery’. His instinct is to protest, more out of surprise than because he actually thinks the doctor made a mistake. He reigns in the urge. 

“No chance it will heal on its own?”

“The radial fracture, maybe. But, see…” 

Patiently, Dr. Thompkins explains her reasoning - how, though she’s not exactly _ecstatic_ with the fusion she can see of the radius, it’s the placement and uncommonly large size of the styloid fragment that worries her. How, in addition to impinging on the nerve, it could pose a threat to the ulnar artery as well. 

(Hal has to admit, that _does_ sound bad.)

She asks if the numbness has happened before, but doesn’t seem any happier when he assures her otherwise. 

“Your first option is basic extraction: remove the offending bone shard so it can’t cause damage in the future. Simpler surgery, quicker recovery time,” she explains. (A voice in his head snarks, _I prefer to keep my bones on the inside, thanks,_ before he shakes it off.)

“However, the chance of long-term joint instability is higher than if the floating body can be reattached. It’s a more complex operation, but - I suspect - the one your orthopedist will recommend once you talk it over with him.”

Hal nods; he’s still trying to adjust to the idea, switch gears from ‘it’s just a matter of time, the pain will go away eventually’, to ‘wait, you wanted _two_ functional hands?’ He hasn't found his voice to respond, yet, when Bruce speaks up. He'd been so quiet until then, Hal almost forgot his presence.

“Are you willing to give a recommendation as to that surgeon? I hear Mercy’s chair of orthopedics…”

The doctor doesn't seem terribly surprised when he proceeds to quiz her about Gotham's array of surgeons and facilities, though she does look back and forth between them. Hal struggles to follow along, held back by his unfamiliarity with both the doctors and Gotham area hospitals they name - familiarity that seems a little excessive in Bruce's case, even for a bat. 

It's the kind of conversation that might otherwise lose his attention - except, it's _his_ arm they want to cut open. So he follows along, ignoring the spike of annoyance at mostly being superfluous. 

Not that he needs to add anything, not when Batman's compulsive nature starts spilling out of his businessman persona. 

It's Bruce who asks, "I presume the procedure requires general anesthesia?" (And doesn't _that_ hit Hal like a punch to the gut, when the doctor nods.)

It's Bruce who asks, "How urgent would you say the timetable is?" 

To which the doc snorts. "Most patients, I would say 'not very'. But that’s under the assumption the limb would be immobilized, and if you're anything like _him…"_ she says this to Hal, but with a jerk of her head to indicate Bruce. "Well, I'd recommend 'next available.'"

(And Hal would like to defend himself, to protest that he knows how to follow a doctor's orders. That he can be trusted to be reasonable, and not make it worse. But, he realizes, current evidence suggests otherwise. So, like a bitter pill, he swallows the objection.)

It's Bruce who clarifies: "No minimum wait, for the swelling to go down? He could have the operation tomorrow?"

"Even you couldn't get a surgeon to operate on him with less than 24 hours notice, Bruce. But no…"

It's Bruce's quiet - and quietly arrogant - murmur, of "you'd be surprised," that almost sets Hal off.

He's been treated like a child - left at the kid's table and told to let the adults handle it - before, and it never goes over well. It throws him painfully back to his early days with the League, where everything he said was met with Batman's scorn, skepticism, or dismissed wholesale. When Bruce hardly trusted him to direct traffic, and even then only with a minder. 

(Not that Hal ever stood for it, not if he thought the full power of the ring could make a difference. The old Hal would have blown up at Bruce and had it out, middle of a fight or not, if he thought it necessary.)

But that was then. 

This Hal is different. He’s lost his best friend, his mentor, his mother, and too many comrades... even the city he called home. This Hal feels distinctly awkward about being Bruce's guest - and not just in the Batcave.

So this Hal says nothing - at least, not in front of the doc. The woman was willing, after all, to throw the Batman out of his own cave, had Hal not stopped her - had he not insisted it was 'fine'.

He’s trying hard not to regret it, not like he’s starting to regret turning down Alfred’s offer of painkillers. The soreness in his wrist is a heavy throb he can feel all the way up in his jaw - or maybe that’s just from biting his tongue. Either way, it’s certainly not helping with his irritability.

They are alone in the study once Alfred leaves to show Dr. Thompkins out, when Hal turns on Bruce. 

"What the hell, B?" 

Bruce shoots him a startled look - a real, honest-to-god expression, not just a neutral face with some subtle crease Hal chooses to interpret as surprise - before he smooths it away. And, maybe some other time, Hal could feel something like triumph at that - at catching Bruce with his guard down, his face open. But not now, his frustration spilling into anger. 

"What?" 

"Gee, I don't know. Controlling much? I know it often escapes your notice, but I too am a god damn adult. I've been taking care of myself for a long damn time - I know you’re used to being in charge, but I’m not one of your orphans, I don’t need a Bat taking care of making all my decisions for me. I can make my own fucking choices."

"Can you?" Bruce responds. His mouth snaps shut a second later, almost like his teeth are a hatch that’s snapped shut a second too late to stop the words from escaping.

For a moment, Hal stops breathing when his anger flares up, hot and raw. It makes his fists clench. The knuckles on his good hand sting as the fresh scabbing cracks and splits. 

"Oh my god," he hisses when he manages to speak. "I'm - yeah, I'm gonna go. Somewhere. Before I, I don't know, fuck up my hand any worse on your face."

He doesn't look for Bruce's reaction, turning to make good on the statement. It's an exit that would be more dramatic, under other circumstances: if Hal could simply step outside, blast away into the stratosphere, beyond; if he could blink out of sight, passing right by low Earth orbit. If he had somewhere to _go_.

But he doesn't, so he retreats to the guest room. He catches the door, closing it gently behind him despite the urge to let it slam. The duffel sits where he left it, half-open on the bed, and when he spots it - just like that, the wind goes out of his sails.

Hal lets himself sprawl face down on the bed - like he's eight and dad won't get him that new bike, like he's twelve and hurting and no one understands, like he's sixteen and angry at the world, angry for more reasons than he can count. 

He huffs at his own melodrama and rolls over. Something jabs at his hip and he extracts the forgotten WayneTech device from his pocket. Recalling his promise to Alfred, he opens up the only text conversation on his new phone. Agonizingly slowly, he types out a message:

_'Sorry about disappearing earlier. thanks for stopping by'_

_'Of course. You okay?'_

All of the sudden, he appreciates Dinah’s occasional distaste for modern technology. He won’t do her the disrespect of lying, but he doesn’t want to get into it. In person, at least with Di, he could convey that with a simple shrug. 

He finally settles on: _'Eh. Did you get to visit your mom?'_

The reply takes longer than a simple ‘yes’. When it comes, Hal understands.

_'Chickened out last min'_

_'It's fine, I’ll go another time'_

Hal can’t remember the last time he visited his parents, at least without Jim to drag him along. But his brother actually seems to get something out of graveside visits, while they just leave Hal feeling… awkward. 

Dinah’s been a good friend though; it’s about time he did the same. 

_'Well, if you want company,'_ he texts, _'I'm around.'_

_'thanks. I may take you up on that'_

Hal figures that's the end of the conversation. Still, he hasn't put the phone away a minute later when it buzzes again.

 _‘You know I love you, right?’_ he reads. _‘Ollie, too, in case Mr. Feelings didn't mention it.’_

And, it’s not that he was _unaware._ Still, there’s something weird going on in his chest.

_‘Thanks, Di. Backatcha.’_

Before he puts the phone away, Hal opens the contacts to check something. It isn’t a _long_ list, but right near the top, nestled between Bruce Wayne and Dinah Lance, is her name: Carol Ferris. His thumb hovers over the call button for an endless minute, before he sighs and lets the hand holding the phone fall to his side. It would seem he’s hit his limit of one emotionally fraught phone call per day.

Hal showers. It’s his third shower in just over twenty-four hours. Still, he feels like he could have a hundred more and not fully wash away the feeling of soot and concrete dust on his skin, of ash and grit in his nose and on his tongue. 

He checks the long cut on his leg, but Bruce’s neat stitches have held. He rebandages it for the second time that day, using supplies he found in the bathroom cabinets. It’s so very like Bruce - or, he supposes, Alfred - to keep even the medicine cabinet of an unused guest room fully stocked. With a sigh, he also gives in to look for tylenol, or something to take the edge off. He can ignore injuries with the best of them in the heat of battle; he’s never let a little thing like pain stop him when there was a planet to save, a fight to win. But after, when the adrenaline fades and there’s nothing to distract him from the sensation? 

Yeah, Hal can admit he’s a wimp when it comes to pain then. When he finds them, he pops two tablets in his mouth, sticks his head in the sink to wash them down with water from the faucet.

He dips into the bag for another set of clothes, thinking he’s going to have to start worrying about laundry soon, if he keeps it up. He wonders at the last time he actually did laundry - it’s not like his lantern uniform ever needs washing, and whatever pocket dimension his regular clothes disappear to, they certainly don’t get dirty there. 

There comes a knock on the door, but Hal tries to keep his posture relaxed. He can’t imagine Bruce coming to find him so soon - at least, not after Bats let him storm off - so it’s probably Alfred.

“Master Jordan.”

“Alf.” 

“I know lunch was rather late, but I have a light dinner prepared if you would care to join us in the dining room?” 

“Thanks, but. I’m not hungry," Hal says. It’s not even really a lie. 

Alfred’s brow creases in something almost like a frown. “Very well. Let me know if that should change.” 

Only once he’s gone, does Hal realize the glaring hole in his plan. Because there is one category that was glaringly overlooked in his all-in-one, supplies-for-a-new-life kit: entertainment. There’s not a single book, or magazine, or even a flight manual to browse. And while there’s doubtless plenty of reading material in the Manor, and he’s hardly been confined to the guest room, Hal’s feeling a little… reluctant to explore. It’s a big place, but he’s much more likely to have to confront Bruce if he does emerge. At this point, Hal would rather… not. Mostly, because he’s starting to realize something.

He may have, possibly, just a little bit, slightly overreacted. Which means he probably owes the man an apology. 

Damn it.

“Come in,” Bruce calls, and Hal pushes open the door to the study. He’s standing to one side of the desk, turning away from the window to look in the direction of the door. There’s a glass of something golden in his hand, a dinner plate on the desk with the remains of a half-eaten sandwich and an untouched chocolate chip cookie. 

“Drink?” he offers.

“Please.” 

Bruce pulls a bottle and a second glass out of a drawer in the desk, pouring two fingers into the glass. Hal takes a whiff, breathing in the smoky scent; he prefers his Scotch on the rocks, but he can appreciate it neat. After all, he figures the chance is pretty high this single tumbler’s contents is worth more than any full bottle of liquor Hal’s bought in his life. 

After a moment of silence, they both speak at once. 

“I owe you an apology-”

“About earlier-”

They both stop, surprised. Hal gestures for Bruce to go first, taking another sip of his drink - he rather wants to hear this. 

“I owe you an apology. I should not have said what I did, it was an… ill-conceived joke. It was not my intention to make you fe-” Bruce changes word choice mid-sentence; “To seize control of the situation in a manner that gave the impression I... lack confidence in you.”

Hal wonders briefly if there is such a thing as a ‘how to give a proper apology’ course and if, so, when Bruce took it - because it’s a strangely good one. Still, he can’t resist poking. 

“Don’t you, though?” 

“It is more that I… doubt your responsibility to the corps has allowed you the opportunity to maintain proper health insurance coverage.” 

Which - huh. Bruce has him there. Hal hasn’t had health insurance since he had to give up the full-time gig at Ferris. “In which case, I thought it satisfactory that Bruce Wayne’s money and influence should… enable you to get the best possible care.”

The way he says it, like the ‘Bruce Wayne’ with all the money is somehow divorced from the man himself, makes Hal want to shake his head - or possibly give a bitter laugh. Hal plops down in one of the two comfy armchairs that faces the desk between them with a sigh. 

“And I’m sorry for yelling at you when you were… only trying to help.”

Following his lead, Bruce takes a seat as well. 

“Do you not… want the surgery?” he asks.

“Bruce, nobody _wants_ surgery,” he says. “But, you know what I want even less? To slice off my fingers because my hand goes numb the next time I’m chopping vegetables.”

Bruce inclines his head slightly. "Somehow that seems unlikely - what reason could Hal Jordan have to chop vegetables?" he says, and this time - this time, Hal can detect the teasing note. He rolls his eyes.

"I'll have you know, I make a mean stir-fry," he counters.

“Hmm. So then, will allow me to schedule you an appointment with the orthopedist Leslie recommended?”

“I don’t know, shouldn’t you really be asking if you need to _cancel_ the one you already made?” Bruce’s face is inscrutable as ever, but he doesn’t deny it, which Hal takes as confirmation enough. And maybe it’s the way the pain in his arm had been dulled, or the two fingers of extremely good Scotch, or the fact that Batman just _apologized_ to him, but he can’t even be angry.

Hal snorts. “Yeah, Bruce. It’s fine.”

The other man relaxes. “Good.”

There's a pause that somehow feels heavy, despite clearing of the air.

“So, no suit? I thought Bats usually worked at night,” Hal remarks. His gaze has caught on the cookie again, and he’s wondering if B would fight him for it.

“It’s a bit early, yet,” Bruce says.

“Is it?” Hal gives in, leaning forward to swipe the abandoned baked good. He pops the cookie into his mouth, surprised at the taste of not just chocolate chip, but peanut butter. 

Bruce blinks at him. “Did you just steal my dessert?”

Hal shrugs. “The lemon bars were better,” he says. 

“I don’t do citrus.” Which - that’s an interesting phrasing. He’s trying to decide if he cares enough to ask for the story there, but he surprises himself with a yawn.

“Get some sleep, Jordan.”

Hal stands. “Fine. But only because I want to, and not because you said so.”

Bruce rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, but there’s a hint of amusement in the quirk of his lips. 

“Beat up some bad guys for me, Spooky,” he says as he goes.


	11. Liminal Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little rumination and a special guest before we return to our regularly-scheduled programming.

For a moment after Hal leaves the room, Bruce just… sits. He’s not entirely sure why that went so well. 

When the Lantern first stomped off, he squashed the initial urge to go after him. All it took was the reminder that the Lantern wouldn’t - _couldn’t_ \- go far, a thought he felt guilty about as soon as he had it. 

The blow-up left him _relieved_ , of all things; it was like the shoe finally dropping, so that he no longer had to worry about it poised over their heads. There was just something _wrong_ about a Hal Jordan who was not fighting him tooth and nail, who tolerated his company for hours while saying so very little - even while focused on flying. 

Not that he _intended_ to antagonize the man - but, then again, that never really _did_ require much effort on his part. 

He couldn’t argue with Hal’s accusations; he had not, in fact, involved the Lantern at all when going over treatment options with Leslie. But it seemed obvious to him at the time what action should be taken, so he had simply done it. 

Perhaps that had not been the way to go about it, but. Given a chance to think it over, there was no way Jordan would be shortsighted enough to come to a different conclusion… surely. 

It’s what he told himself, anyway, when he contacted the fist orthopedist on the list. He told himself he would allow Hal some time to calm down, use the reprieve to take care of a few things, and then… then, he would figure out how to fix it. 

It came as a surprise, then, when Jordan appeared of his own volition. The even greater surprise was his own, not totally-incompetant, attempt at an apology. The whole thing blew over so quickly he was almost left winded by it; _since when,_ he thought, _did confrontations between Batman and Green Lantern ever end short of insults yelled and fists thrown?_

Then again, perhaps that was just it - for once, Bruce _wasn’t_ Batman, and Hal wasn’t Green Lantern. And while the source of the argument wasn’t _trivial,_ not while it considered Jordan’s return to full health, it also wasn’t the fate of the world hanging in the balance. 

Was that really all it took?

Bruce took his plate and the two, now drained, scotch glasses to the kitchen to save Alfred the trip, before descending into the cave. 

He isn’t particularly surprised to find Tim there, although he had not spoken to the young Robin since his return to Gotham. He spares a moment for a flash of guilt at that before shaking it off. 

The teen is in sweats and hoodie, rather than his costume, and appears to have brought his homework. 

He’s still a little bemused by the way Tim has started to treat the cave as an extension of his living room. It started sometime after they managed to construct the latest hidden entrance, the one that is tucked in a side tunnel that conveniently ran under the Drake property. But, considering the addition allows Bruce to keep a closer eye the boy, and his Robin suit secured safely in the cave, he’ll allow the impropriety. 

On the last step, he is careful to drag his foot just heavily enough to make a scuffing sound, and Tim looks up.

“Hey, B,” he calls.

“Tim,” He abruptly remembers their plans to patrol the previous evening, and hides a wince. “I apologize for being out of touch yesterday,” he says. 

“Alfred said you were out of town?” The statement is turned in to a question by a slight rise in pitch at the end.

“Yes. If it hadn’t been so last minute I - would have tried asking Dick to fill in.”

Tim shrugs. “‘S Alright. Had that project from Oracle to entertain myself. Anything I should know?”

“No,” Bruce answers. As always, the assessing look Tim shoots him seems way too old for his fifteen years. “Anything _I_ should know?” he counters.

“Nah, just the usual. Skynet’s still a work in progress, but she should be up and running soon,” he offers.

“Skynet? What’s that?” Bruce queries as he crosses to the main computer. 

Tim blinks at him, evidently trying to discern if he is serious. Bruce is careful not to give him any clues. But after a long moment of silence, he realizes the teen’s eyes have gone unfocused on him.

“Tim?”

He appears to shake it off. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

“I noticed.

“Plans for the evening?” he prompts. 

Tim makes a face. “Finish up my Algebra, then do some training.”

Bruce makes his decision. “Spar?” 

The kid absolutely lights up. Bruce keeps the slim smile glued to his face, even as something in his chest squeezes at the sight. Tim doesn’t reply, other than an eager nod. 

“Alright. Let me just get changed.”

It was… unexpected, to say the least, when Bruce realized Tim was not unaware of his limits. He’s inexperienced, for one, and doesn’t have Dick’s natural grace, or Jason’s- even in the privacy of his min, Bruce shies away from the thought. 

What he does have is an acute observational sense, and, even more, is a quick study. It’s the thing Bruce is most grateful for, and not just because it makes him easy to teach. Though he tries not to dwell on it, it has occured to Bruce in the past that, were he a slow learner, it’s entirely possible Timothy Drake would not have survived catching the interest of Lady Shiva - or Edmund Dorrance. He nearly had a heart attack when he learned about that one after the fact, and he still hardly knew the kid at the time.

Tim’s other strength lies in the way he cleaves to a sort of… economy of movement. He doesn’t move when he doesn’t have to, conserving his energy where possible, an approach that pairs well with his keen eyes and mind.

Still, he is a teenager. Having the patience to correctly time his execution is an ongoing struggle.

Bruce sees the move coming, of course, but he’s always careful to hold his reaction until the boy’s movement gives him away. When Tim dives in a second too early trying to catch him off balance, Bruce is able to shift his weight back to center in time to turn the move against him.

Tim pants for a moment on the mat - even after their warm-up, the spar lasted a respectable length - then groans.

“Did you see it coming, or did I move too soon?” he asks, a little breathless as he curls up into a seated position.

“Both,” he admits, and Tim’s face falls a little. “Good work overall,” he adds, belatedly, as he offers a hand up. 

Tim takes it. “Thanks,” he says, ducking his head a little behind a mop of dark hair that is starting to get a little long. “Going out on patrol?”

“About that time,” Bruce agrees. “How are your arms? Trembling yet?”

Tim tentatively pulls one into a stretch, and then the other. “Not yet.”

“Then you know what I’m going to say.” 

“Keep at it until they do. I do have to be able to hold a pencil at school tomorrow, you know,” he retorts. 

“Then you can prop your arms up on your desk,” Bruce says as he goes to get changed into something a little more armored. 

Tim just rolls his eyes.

Hal wakes on his own the next morning, no alarm clock or nightmares to jar him from sleep. Over the years, he has slept in a lot of strange beds (and not-beds), so he takes a second to appreciate the way the soft cotton sheets and obviously human mattress tell him he’s Earthside. 

And then it all comes back to him.

Despite being perfectly rested, Hal resists waking up fully for as long as possible. If he rolls over and goes back to sleep, he can probably shut the whole world out for a few more hours. Then his stomach reminds him about skipping dinner the night before, and the hunger is enough to get him moving.

He pulls on the same clothes from the previous evening, since he hardly wore them for much more than an hour. Downstairs, he follows his nose - and the scent of bacon - to the kitchen. The sizzling and popping sounds of grease on a pan tell him when he’s getting close. 

“Morning, Alf.”

“Master Jordan. Sleep well enough?”

“Actually… yeah. Not sure my internal clock has ever synched back up this fast before. Need any help?”

“No, thank you. I have heard tell of the flaming soupcan incident.”

Hal groans. “Bruce?”

“Master Clark, actually.”

There’s some emotion in his voice that Hal can’t quite identify. He’s tempted to chalk it up to the boy scout’s having died and then come back to life.

“How do you like your eggs?”

“Anything but over easy.”

Though Alfred offers to bring him a plate at the breakfast table, Hal argues against causing him the trouble.

“I’m fine here, unless you’d rather me out of your hair,” he says, pulling a chair up to the bar instead. The idea of sitting alone in a (probably) too-large room making Alfred wait on him makes Hal uncomfortable, and, more than that, Hal has questions. There’s a possibility - however slim - that the Englishman has answers.

“How is Clark?” he asks, hand curled around the warm mug Alfred passed him. But the man’s answer makes him frown; it’s too glossed-over, hardly more than the kind of information Hal could have gleaned from the news, had he been on planet to see it.

“Okay, but how is _Clark?”_ he repeats when the pause tells him Alfred is finished. The butler catches the emphasis, of course, and his shoulders slump ever so slightly. 

“Busy, I expect. We haven’t seen much of him since - since that whole business with Doomsday, I’m afraid.”

Hal’s finger’s, drumming on the side of his coffee cup to satisfy his usual urge to fidget, still. _That can’t be right,_ he thinks.

Batman and Superman go together like - like chips and salsa, like peanut butter and jelly, or Salt 'N' Pepa. In some ways they were polar opposites, black versus white, but they’d been friends since before Hal ever joined the league; known each other's secret identities for as long as he could remember. Newspapers all over the country paired them as the worlds’ finest heroes. And now, what? Death stopped Superman from coming around?

Hal feels a sudden pang, more for Alfred than himself. Hal heard about Superman’s death, even out there in the far reaches of space. But it’s all too easy to put off mouring when you're billions of light-years away, and by the time he got back - well, Clark was already alive again. 

Alfred though - he doesn’t know how close the two were, but he can guess. Clark had obviously been mourned by the older man, even if he was no longer dead. And Hal thinks, maybe, he knows what the emotion in the older man’s voice was after all. 

“Master Wayne, good morning,” the butler says, and Hal starts. “I didn’t expect you up so soon,” 

“Slow night,” Bruce answers from the doorway, in a voice that Hal was not at all prepared for. Not Batman’s; it lacked all of the usual sharp edges, the aggression. But, evidently, first thing in the morning Bruce’s speech was as rough as if all the gravel Batman gargled to perfect the Dark Knight’s growl was lodged somewhere in his throat. 

After a sip, his words regained much of their usual polish. “That’s fine, Alfred. Thank you,” he says. Then Hal’s presence seems to register - although, the lantern doubts Batman has ever entered a room without immediately cataloging everything, and everyone, present.

“Good, you’re up,” he says - well, more like grunts. “You have an appointment to see the orthopedist at nine, at Gotham Medical Center West. I’m headed into the city in a bit, and can drop you off on the way.”

And Hal - well, in the interest of keeping the peace, he may have decided to accept Bruce’s tendency to micromanage, but there’s no reason to tempt fate. The two of them are _not_ carpool kind of people. 

“What, and have both of us seriously injured because you pass out? I think I’ll take a cab - you look like death warmed over.”

Bruce frowned at him. “By the time a cab gets out here and makes its way back into the city, you’ll be late,” he reasoned. 

Hal rolled his eyes. “Then it’s a good thing ‘there are advantages to having Bruce Wayne’s money and influence’ - isn’t that what you said?”

“Or,” came the voice of reason, “I would be happy to drive you, Master Jordan. There are a few errands in the city I need to take care of anyway.” 

The rest of Hal’s day is spent in and out of various hospital waiting rooms, the kinds with uncomfortable chairs and sterile walls that seem to drain the soul out of anyone trapped there for too long. Hal hesitates briefly as he enters; while he might not need a babysitter, he suddenly has the notion that a little backup might be nice.

The woman at intake asks for his name in a monotone and inputs it in the computer. She shows the tiniest spark of life then, when she takes a ready packet, flips through it, and tears out roughly half. Attaching the remains to a clipboard, she passes it over.

“Fill that out and bring it back,” she instructs, eyes already glossing back over with apathy. 

Hal takes one of the excessively cheap pens from the waiting cup and finds a seat. He flips through the papers once before getting started. Halfway through the endless stack of patient history, medical records, and legal release forms, he realizes what is missing: literally anything to do with insurance, payment, or billing. His eyebrows climb up his forehead, but he can’t actually bring himself to feel much surprise; Bruce is efficient that way. 

When every blank is filled, his signature or initials applied so often he might as well be signing away his soul, Hal hands the whole thing back and settles in to wait. After a period of time that feels like eternity, but is actually less than five minutes if the wall clock can be trusted, the woman calls him back up. Through the plexiglass, she shoots him a look he can’t decipher. 

“Mr. Jordan? There’s... a problem with the address listed,” she says, something guarded in her tone as she hands back the forms. 

Hal takes them. There’s a long beat where he reads the section she indicated and cannot spot the issue. Then it hits him, the impact somewhere between a twenty-pound dumbbell to the chest and a freight train. 

“Oh,” he says, trying for a reassuring smile. “Old habits.”

She doesn’t look reassured.

“Hang on, let me just-” 

He steps away.

“Bruce Wayne,” Bruce answers, once Hal manages to fumble the phone out of his jacket pocket and call. 

“Yeah, it’s me. I need your address,” he says, in a voice that shouldn't carry too far. There’s a beat, and Hal wonders if the Bat is going to say something, before he answers.

“Shit, hang on,” Hal interrupts, switching the phone to tuck it between his other ear and his shoulder, as he shifts the clipboard and pen so he can write.

“Say that again?”

Bruce repeats the address, and Hal scribbles it down while his left hand holds the board steady against his thigh. 

“Copy,” he says when it’s all down. “Thanks.”

There’s another beat of silence where Hal can practically _feel_ Bruce about to ask something - how it’s going, probably - but then he just says, “You’re welcome.”

Phone back in his pocket, Hal stares for a second at the words, ‘Bristol’ crammed in over the scratched out, but still readable, ‘Coast City.’ Then he shakes it off and returns the whole mess, practically thrusting the clip-board through the opening.

It marks the official start of the waiting game. He waits in the lobby, he waits in an exam room. A nurse comes to take his vitals; he waits some more. When he eventually sees the doctor, it takes the man all of ten minutes to check Hal’s wrist, the x-rays Leslie sent over, and order an MRI. 

From orthopedics, the imaging and diagnostics center is the next building over. Following the directions he was given, the whole process begins again. 

By the time he’s waited (again), had his vitals checked (again), been injected with some kind of ‘contrast’ fluid, and spent an eternity facedown on a table with his left arm over his head while a giant tube of a magnet makes unsettling noises all around him, Hal has no idea what time it is. It’s like the whole damn hospital is one great big liminal space. Even when he steps outside, the overcast sky gives him no clues. 

They hand over a disc, in a little envelope, and tell him to give it to his doctor, so Hal returns to the first waiting room. In his absence, the drone at the desk has changed. Her scrubs are almost the same shade of blue-grey, but instead of pale skin and dark hair, she has dark skin and hair that matches the fire-engine red of her nails.

Her eyes flicker only briefly away from the computer screen as she takes the disc. “Have a seat,” she says, so Hal does.

He thinks, not for the first time as he tries to get comfortable in the hard plastic chair, that he should have brought a book along. Thankfully, the wait is the shortest one he's had so far.

Dr. Thompkins was right about pretty much everything. The orthopedic surgeon lists the options, and his recommendation falls in line exactly with what she expected. Far be it for Hal to argue with two doctors on the subject; the only thing left is to schedule the operation. 

When the doctor asks Hal if he has a preference, he parrots back Leslie’s words. “Next available?” 

And, wonder of wonders, the doctor checks his schedule and finds a cancelation has freed up a slot the very next morning. “I know it’s short notice,” he says, but Hal just shrugs.

“I don’t have any reason why not.” 

“Fabulous. Then I’ll leave my P.A. here to arrange it. Good to meet you, Mr. Jordan.”

“Likewise,” he answers, attempting to rein in his usual sarcasm.

After shaking Hal’s hand, the doctor departs. His P.A. goes over the general process for an out-patient surgery, from when he has to start fasting, to the requirement for another responsible adult to remain present at the facility during the operation, as well as someone to stay with him for twenty-four hours post-anesthesia. He’s given a packet that mostly contains all the same information, and then he is free to go.

Dr. Thompkins' words from the day before run through Hal’s mind, and he has to suppress a sour chuckle.

 _“Even you couldn't get a surgeon to operate on him with less than twenty-four hours notice, Bruce,"_ she said.

It may not be twenty-four hours, but it’s damn close. 

Walking out of the room, Hal checks his phone. It buzzed during the conversation with the doc, but he ignored it at the time. The message is from Bruce, and exactly what he expected. 

_"How did it go?"_

Hal starts to type out a reply before giving up and hitting the call button. The line rings several times before it clicks through.

"Verdict?" Bruce asks, skipping straight to the point. 

A half dozen quips with various degrees of sarcasm run through his head, from 'Well, hello to you, too," to, 'Innocent until proven guilty?'

What he says, however, is this: "Surgery is scheduled for Eight A.M. tomorrow."

"Are you still at the hospital?" Bruce asks, "Or have you already left?"

"No, they just let me go. I'm about to call a cab, save Alfred the trouble of coming back this way," he says, stopping in the waiting room vestibule. 

"If you give me twenty, I'll pick you up," Bruce says. 

Hal hesitates. From the long delay before the other man picked up the phone, he's sure he interrupted something. But Bruce wouldn't offer if he didn't mean it, and Hal already turned down one olive branch today. 

"Alright."

It takes him closer to twenty-five to pull up outside. Hal climbs in the front seat, only remembering to fasten the seatbelt when Bruce gives him a pointed look. 

He feels a shiver of deja-vu, despite never having ridden shotgun in a car with Bruce; the closest they've come is Hal in the co-pilot's seat of the Batplane, which is hardly the same thing at all.

"Sorry if I pulled you out of a meeting," Hal offers, then wonders what weirdly polite mind-controlling alien took over his mouth when he wasn't looking. Bruce's eyes flicker to the right.

"It's fine," he says, then flashes a smirk. "Even my secretary couldn't argue when I mentioned where I was going. Turns out the hospital might be the only safe zone left in this city where my board will leave me alone."

Hal's customary snark returns. "So, what did I rescue you from. Death by PowerPoint?"

"More like cruel and unusual punishment."

"Oh, sure, you're one to talk about civil liberties," Hal prods. "Isn't everything you do technically illegal? You know, assault, vigilantism, coercing confessions?"

Bruce frowns; Hal can see because he's twisted his upper body toward the driver's side as he talks. For a second, Hal almost regrets speaking. He was mostly joking, but trust Batman not to take it that way - he's too serious for his own good. Thankfully, aside from the slight tightening of his mouth, he doesn't seem upset.

"And you would be the expert on that? Pretty sure your badge is only good in space, Lantern."

Hal suppresses the surge of emotion that squeezes his chest. "Hey, Earth is part of my sector, too," he protests, forcing the words out past the lump.

 _Of course, it's not like I did anything to protect her from having one of her major cities destroyed, now did I,_ a dark voice whispers. Hal clenches his teeth, trying to shove away the memory of dust and rubble, the flashes of explosions he'd only witnessed from the news feed. His right hand tightens reflexively on his thigh, and he doesn't realize he's biting hard on the inside of his cheek until he can taste the tang of copper. It takes a monumental effort of will to break out of it.

Forcing his jaw to unclench, he clears his throat, flipping over the detail packet in his lap. 

"About the surgery," he starts. Bruce's eyes are on the road, and they remain that way as he merges onto one of Gotham's few elevated highways. Hal thinks it will make things easier.

"It's outpatient," he continues. "The doc says it should take maybe four hours, from admission through post-op, and then I can go- and then they release me." 

Bruce doesn't comment, but Hal still knows he's listening. 

"Anyway, because it's outpatient, they require an 'adult of legal age to remain on the premises for the duration,'" he quotes, wondering if any of this is actually news to Bruce. (He guesses not.)

"Would you like me to fly your brother out? Or Carol?" he offers, when Hal pauses.

"Wh- no, it's. It's not that big a deal. I mean, thanks, but…" he ruffles the papers, but, for once in his life, the words don't come.

"You could probably call Dinah." 

Hal swallows. "I… could, yeah. But, actually…" 

This time when he trails off, Bruce doesn't try to fill in the blank. 

Hal huffs a bit. "Look, B. I imagine you and I have… somewhat similar feelings on the whole general anesthesia business," he says. It earns him a pretty instant frown.

"If it's medically necessary…"

"Yeah. Yeah. But that's why - I mean. If you were serious about wanting to get away from your board, well. It's a tailor-made excuse to get four hours in a 'safe zone'," he says. Then, unable to resist the temptation to turn everything into a joke, he adds, "I'm almost positive you count as an 'adult of legal age.’”

"Hm," comes Bruce's noncommittal response. Then, "Okay."

"...Okay?" Hal parrots. He's… not sure what he expected, but somehow that wasn't it.

"Of course, Jordan. If that's what you want."

Hal relaxes a bit further into his seat, angling his head away toward the passenger window. 

"Alright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an aside that got split off then re-combined with part of the next chapter because I've decided I'm not a fan of the tiny interludes, but I liked the bit with Tim and didn't want to cut it... so I tagged it onto Hal's day bumming around the hospital. Sorry if it's an awkward combination?  
> As always, I open to any thoughts/comments! Anything you liked/didn't like?  
> Oh, and if you are not a member of the archive but would like to be ~please~ hit me up for an invite over at [@daemons-not-rogues](https://daemons-not-rogues.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

**Author's Note:**

> I need more [DC] comics nerds to chill with, especially if you are as nostalgic for the 90s as this girl! Come find me on Tumblr at [@daemons-not-rogues](https://daemons-not-rogues.tumblr.com)
> 
> (Update 5.03.20 - FYI this is most definitely still in work, but I've abandoned any kind of regular update schedule until RL becomes less overwhelming. New chapters will be slower and more sporadic. If you wanna subscribe but are not a member of the archive, hit me up on tumblr for an invite)


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